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4 


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BY / 

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Author OF “THE PARTISAN,” “ MELLICHAMPE. 
"THE SCOUT,” Etc., Etc. 


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GUY RIVERS 






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GXIY EIVEKS: 

A 

m 

TALE OF GEORGIA. 

BY W. GILMORE SIMMS, 

AUTIKHi or “the yemassee.” “the partisan,” “ mellichampe,” 
“KATHARINE WALTON,” “THE SCOUT,” “WOODCRAFT,” ETC. 


“ Who wants 

A sequel, may road on. Th’ unvarnished tale 
That follows will supply the place of one,” 

Rogers’ Italy. 


©(!■<» (ini> lR(!&i0c6 €Mtion. 


NEW YORK : 

JOHN W. LOVELL COMPANY, 

14 & 16 Vesey Street, 


■r.'- = 

. v" 


Willtam Gilmore Simms’ Worlrs 

CONTAINED IN 

Lovell’s Library. 

* 


/ 640. The Partisan 30 

/ 648. Mellichampe 30 

V 653. The Yemassee 30 

-/ 657. Katherine Walton 30 

663. Southward Ho! 30 

/ 671. The Scout 30 

v 674. The Wigwam and Cabin 30 

V 677. Vasconselos. 30 

680. Confession 30 

/ 684. AVoodcraft 30 

687. Richard Ilurdis 30 

-> 690. Guy Rivers.. 30 * 

693. Border Beagles 30 

4 697. The Forayers 30 

703. Charlemont 30 

'( 703. Eutaw 30 

705. Beauchampe 30 



TO 


CHARLES R. CARROLL, Eso. 

OP SOUTH CAROLINA. 


My Dear Carroll. — 

The task of revising my earlier writings, for a new and 
uniform edition of my works, brings naturally back to memory, 
and recalls, with vivid effect, the experiences of my yoiTth, the 
agrocable and the disagreeable, the hopeftil and discouraging, 
wliich I knew when they were severally written. In this 
labor, none of these works occasions more lively reminiscences 
than thi uovel of Guy Rivers, first published twenty years 
ago, and then dedicated to you. It was then that I commenced 
a professional career in literature which has been wholly un- 
broken since ; and, in its reperusal, I retrace, with a sadden- 
ing satisfaction, the events, public and personal, which made 
for us an almost mutual life at that period. Little, then, did 
either of us foresee or conjecture the changes which Providence 
had in store for both. Then we rode and ran together — read, 
and mused, and wrote together — and, in a vague and misty 
light of the fancy — the Indian summer of the soul — seeing 
nothing certainly of our future, yet hoping much, we indulged 
in our several dreams — which were scarcely several — which, 
in fact, were nearly entertained in common confiding in on/ 


^ dedicatory epistle. 

youth— in the sky and sunshine— and brooding little upon 
those gradual developments of the coming time, which were to 
bring with them such a world of change. Then we were law- 
yers and politicians upon a small scale :— lawyers, with quite 
too little devotion to Themis to win many of her favors ; — pol- 
iticians, with a too small knowledge of men to make politics a 
profitable investment ; and, more amusing still, politicians with 
at least one conclusive argument against every hope of per- 
sonal progress, that we both entertained a wild fancy of patri- 
otism-dreaming that our little world needed reformation, and 
that we were, in some degree, the very persons allotted to put 
the house of state in order ! 

I suppose, by this time, you are quite as well satisfied as 
myself, that we were somewhat mistaken ; and that our poor 
little world of home, however needing reformation, was yet 
very far from being in that very bad state in which our youth- 
•^nl patriotism fancied that she groaned. At all events, we both 
ered that she had quite too many self-sacrificing patriots, 
in whose eyes the toils of office had no terrors, to render ne- 
cessary any services or sacrifices of ours. One lesson, besides, 
we have both learned from the experience of those days. We 
have seen that the mere government of £j, state has but little 
power to endanger the securities of any people so long as so- 
ciety is true to itself ; that society is, in fact, the only safe 
guaranty for government ; and that, so long as a community 
remains decently firm in its morals, pure enough to submit to 
no outrage of propriety, energetic enough to prosecute its toils 
of progress without looking back, having a sturdy zeal in the 
prosecution of common objects, and manhood enough to adhere 
rith determination to the objects avowed ; just so long will it 
remain secure against the vagaries of mere politicians. We 
need never despair, in short, of the safety of any society which 
is working, honest and courageous. Government may annoy 
and afflict such a people; may harass their minds, and, 


DEDICATORY EPISTLE. 


9 


bome degree retard tlieir successes; but can neither destroy 
their fortunes, nor usurp their liberties. After some twenty- 
five years of active observation, a looker-on rather than a 
sharer in the strife, I have come to the conclusion that politi- 
cians rarely destroy anything — but themselves and one another ! 
They supersede each other — succeed each other — as the sparks 
fly upward — doing a little mischief while they remain — leaving 
an unpleasant smell behind them when they depart — but exer- 
cising just as little influence upon the world’s progress as the fly 
upon the wagon- wheel ! Society, however unconsciously, sucks 
out the little sweet that they possess, along with the sour and the 
bitter, and then flings away the skin, with as little heed as we 
do that of the orange, after we have drawn from it all its juices ! 
In giving up the profession of patriotism, therefore, we are 
both consoled with the conviction that our little world is, at no 
time, in much danger from the machinations of little politicians, 
I need not remind you that the fruit of our first connectior 
with the political struggles of our youth, was fatal to our per- 
sonal prospects in such a career. The final overthrow of the 
party with which we were .allied, was a perpetual closing of 
the doors of public life to us. I say perpetual, though, truth 
to speak, we were only under the ban some few years, and the 
“era of good feelings,” in process of time, was the natural 
result of the necessity for a new political organization. But 
five years lost to a young politician, might as well be an eter- 
nity ! To remain, ft)r that period, in waiting upon the benches 
of equal hope and mortification, would wear out the inexpres- 
sibles of the best patriot living. It would argue, besides, a 
degree of stolidity to which I had not the slightest pretension. 
With a few sighs, therefore, not so profound as those of Othello, 
I abandoned the profession of the patriot and politician. My 
occupation, for the time, was gone ; for, cut off from politics, I 
was equally cut off from law. The prejudices which a young 
beginner incurs in politics, will necessarily follow him into the 


10 DEDICATORY EPISTLE. 

courts where his talents have been untried. Besides, I had 
never lieartilj embraced the* profession — had never studied 
6on amove — and, after two years wasted in the dreary life of a 
political editor, I was not in training for the resumption of the 
severe and systematic methods which the law demands of its 
votaries. Literature was my only refuge, as it had been my 
first love, and, as I fancied, my proper vocation ; and “ Guy 
Rivers,” the first volume of which was written before I was of 
age, was the first of my regular novels. 

To you, my dear Carroll, who watched my early beginnings 
with so much friendly interest, I need not say that “ Guy Riv- 
ers” — crude of plan, in many respects — awkward, in conse- 
quence of the measured and stiltish style of an unpractised 
hand — with many faults of taste, and some, perhaps, of moral 
— was yet singularly successful with the public. Its rapid 
popularity, however unmerited, seemed to justify me in the 
new profession I had chosen ; and the young lawyer and the 
patriot politician were naturally very soon sunk in the novelist 
and romancer. 

Since then — “ I am afraid to think of what IVe done !” 

It is not a subject upon which I can properly expatiate ; but 
it will be permitted to me, regarding “ Guy Rivers,” as my 
first deliberate attempt in prose fiction, to linger over its pages, 
and in an address to you, with more than ordinary parental 
interest. I could wish now — were this proper or possible — to 
remould the whole of the first half of the story, both as respects 
plan and style ; for this portion was written under a false, or, 
rather, an imperfect, conception of what was demanded by such 
a work. The reader will, no doubt, readily detect the differ- 
ence of manner which exists between the first and latter half 
of the story. But nothing now can be done toward the amend- 
ment of the halting portions, except to trim and pare away 
some of the cumbering foliage;— lop off, here and there, the 
truant twigs and branches, dear away the excess of under- 


DEDICATORY EPISTLE. 


11 


growth, and smootlie, in some degree, the easy passage of the 
reader through its over-massed intricacies. 

No one can, better than myself, detect the mistakes and ex 
cesses of this performance. I can now see where new trees 
might have been set out with profit; where finer effects might 
be produced by changing the face of the landscape and con- 
ducting the spectator to the survey of the scene from other 
points of vision. But the mind, however willing and resolute, 
revolts at the alteration, whatever its promise of improvement. 
The labor of such a performance grows absolutely terrible even 
to contemplate; and, in very degree with the ability of the 
artist to repair or improve the ancient structure, is his capacity 
to design and build anew. It is also very questionable wheth- 
er any attempt to amend or correct the errors in an old plan 
might not expose the whole fabric to the censure of rude and 
wretched joinery. Any person who has undertaken the re- 
pairs of an old house, without duly knowing, at the outset, 
what is exactly wanted, will readily conceive how much more 
serious must he the task of remodelling a work of art, in sup- 
plying defects in the original conception, and making such 
alterations in the finish, as would be demanded by improving 
tastes, a more matured experience, and higher aims in the 
mind of the artist. Something has been done — nay, a great 
leal, I may say — -toward the pruning of the style — the re- 
moval of the rank undergrowth, the verbiage, the excrescences, 
and supplying the deficient finish. The reader would perhaps 
be surprised by a comparison of the new with the old edition 
in this respect. Something, too, I have done toward the elab- 
oration of the idea, and the better development of occasional 
scenes. More than this could not be attempted. With the 
hope, my dear Carroll, that what has been done will suffice to 
render “ Guy Rivers” more acceptable than before to the pub- 
lic and yourself, I surrender him to your hands. May the pe- 
rusal of the story now, prove as grateful to you as it did twenty 


12 


DEDICATORY EPISTLE. 


years ago, and recall to you as vividly as to me, those days of 
grateful struggle and not less grateful illusion. 

With ancient regard, 

Ever faithfully yours, &c., 

W. fir MORE SIMM8 

VVoODLANDt S. 0 
t^ovember I 185 



(JUY RIVERS 


CHAPTER I. 

THE STER LE PROSPECT AND THE LONELY 'IRAVELLHR. 

Our scene lies in the upper part of the state of Georgia, a 
region at this time fruitful of dispute, as being within the Cher- 
okee territories. The route to which we now address our atten- 
tion, lies at nearly equal distances between the main trunk of 
the Chatahoochie and that branch of it which bears the name 
of the Chestatee, after a once formidable, but now almost forgot- 
ten tribe. Here, the wayfarer finds himself lost in a long reach 
of comparatively barren lands. The scene is kept from monot- 
ony, however, by the undulations of the earth, and by frequent 
hills which sometimes aspire to a more elevated title. The 
tract is garnished with a stunted growth, a dreary and seem- 
ingly half-withered shrubbery, broken occasionally by clumps 
~of slender pines that raise their green tops abruptly, and as if 
out of place, against the sky. 

The entire aspect of the sc^e, if not absolutely blasted, 
wears at least a gloomy and discouraging expression, which sad- 
dens the soul of the most careless spectator. The ragged ran- 
ges of forest, almost untrodden by civilized man, the thin and 
feeble undergrowth, the unbroken silence, the birdless thickets, 
- all seem to indicate a peculiarly sterile destiny. One thinks, 
IS he presses forward, • that some gloomy Fate finds harbor 
in the place. All around, far ns the eye may see, it looks 
in vain for relief in variety. There still stretch the dreary 
wastes, the dull woods, the long sandy tracts, and the rude hillu 


14 


GUY RIVERS. 


that send out no voices, and hang out no lights for the encour- 
agement of the civilized man. Such is the prospect that meets 
the sad and searching c}^es of the wayfarer, as they dart on 
every side seeking in vain for solace. 

Yet, though thus harren upon the surface to the eye, the 
dreary region in which we now find ourselves, is very far from 
wanting in resources, such as not only woo the eyes, but win 
the very soul of civilization. We are upon the very threshold 
of the gold country, so famous for its prolific promise of the pre- 
cious metal ; far exceeding, in the contemplation of the know- 
ing, the lavish abundance of Mexico and of Peru, in their palm- 
iest and most prosperous condition. Nor, though only the 
frontier and threshold as it were to these swollen treasures, was 
the portion of country now under survey, though bleak, sterile, 
and uninviting, wanting in attractions of its own. It contained 
indications which denoted the fertile .regions, nor wanted en- 
tirely in the precious mineral itself. Much gold had been 
already gathered, with little labor, and almost upon its surface ; 
and it was perhaps only hecause of the limited knowledge then 
had of its real wealth, and of its close proximity to a more pro- 
ductive territory, that it had been suffered so long to remain 
unexamined. 

Nature, thus, in a section of the world seemingly unblessed 
with her bounty, and all ungarnished with her fruits and flow- 
ers, seemed desirous of redeeming it from the curse of barren- 
ness, by storing its bosom with a product, which, only of use 
to the world in its conventional necessities, has become, in ac- 
cordance with the self-creating wants of society, a necessity 
itself; and however the bloom and beauty of her summer deco- 
rations may refresh the eye of the enthusiast, it would here 
seem that, with an extended policy, she had planted treasures, 
for another and a greatly larger class, far more precious to the 
eyes of hope and admiration than all the glories and beauties in 
her sylvan and picturesque abodes. Her very sterility and soli- 
tude, when thus found to indicate her mineral treasures, rise 
themselves into attractions ; and the perverted heart, striving 
with diseased hopes, and unnatural passions, gladly welcomes 
the wilderness, without ever once thinking how to make it 
blossom like the rose. 


THE STERILE PROSPECT AND THE LONELY TRAVELLER. 15 

Oliecrless in its exterior, however, the season of the year was 
one — a mild afternoon in May — to mollify and sweeten the 
severe and sterile aspect of thq scene. Sun and sky do their 
work of beauty upon earth, without heeding the ungracious re- 
turn which she may make ; and a rich warm sunset flung over 
the hills and woods a delicious atmosphere of beauty, hurnish- 
ing tlie dull heights and the gloomy pines with golden hues, far 
more bright, if far less highly valued by men, than the metallic 
treasures which lay beneath their masses. Invested by tlie 
lavish bounties of the sun, so soft, yet bright, so mild, yet beau- 
tiful, the waste put on an appearance of sweetness, if it did not 
rise into the picturesque. The very uninviting and unlovely 
character of the landscape, rendered the sudden effect of the 
sunset doubly effective, though, in a colder moment, the specta- 
tor might rebuke his own admiration with question of that lav- 
ish and indiscriminate waste which could clothe, with sucli 
glorious hues, a region so little worthy of such bounty ; even as 
we revolt at sight of rich jewels about the brows and neck of 
age and ugliness. The solitary group of pines, that, here and 
there, shot up suddenly like illuminated spires; — the harsh and 
repulsive hills, that caught, in differing gradations, a glow and 
glory from the same bright fountain of light and beauty ; — even 
the low copse, uniform of height, and of dull hues, not yet quite 
caparisoned for spring, yet sprinkled with gleaming eyes, and 
limned in pencilling beams and streaks of fire ; these, all, ap- 
peared suddenly to be subdued in mood, and appealed, with a 
freshening interest, to the eye of the traveller whom at midday 
their aspects discouraged only. 

And there is a traveller — a single horseman — who emerges 
suddenly from the thicket, and presses forward, not rapidly, nor 
yet with the manner of one disposed to linger, yet whose eyes 
take in gratefully the softening influences of that evening sun- 
light. 

In that region, he who travelled at all, at the time of which 
we write, must do so on horseback. It were a doubtful prog- 
ress which any vehicle would make over the blind and broken 
paths of that uncultivated realm. Either thus, or on foot, as 
was the common practice with the mountain hunters ; men who, 
at seventy years of age, might he found as litlie and active, in 


16 


GUY RIVERS. 


clambering up the lofty summit as if in full possession of tbe 
winged vigor and impulse of twenty-five. 

Our traveller, on the present occasion, was apparently a mere 
youth. He had probably seen twenty summers — scarcely more. 
Yet his person was tall and well developed ; symmetrical and 
manly ; rather slight, perhaps, as was proper to his immaturity j 
but not wanting in what the backwoodsmen call He’ was 

evidently no milksop, though slight ; carried himself with ease 
and grace ; and was certainly not only well endowed with bone 
and muscle, but bore the appearance, somehow, of a person not 
unpractised in the use of it. His face was manly like his 
person ; not so round as full, it presented a perfect oval to the 
eye; the forehead was broad, high, .and intellectual — purely 
white, probably because so well shadowed by the masses of his 
dark brown hair. His eyes were rather small, but dark and 
expressive, and derived additional expression from their large, 
bushy, overhanging brows, which gave a commanding, and, at 
times, a somewhat fierce expression to his countenance. But 
his mouth was small, sweet, exquisitely chiselled, and the lips of 
a ripe, rich color. His chin, full and decided, was in character 
with the nobility of his forehead. The toul ensemble constitu- 
ted a fine specimen of masculine beauty, significant at once of 
character and intelligence. 

Our traveller rode a steed which might be considered, even in 
the South, where the passion for fine horses is universal, of the 
choicest parentage. He was blooded, and of Arabian, through 
English, stocks. You might detect his blood at a glance, even 
as you did that of his rider. The beast was large, high, broad- 
chested, sleek of skin, wiry of limb, with no excess of fat, and 
no straggling hair; small ears, a glorious mane, and a great 
lively eye. At once docile and full of life, he trod the earth 
with the firm pace of an elephant, yet with the ease of an ante- 
lope ; moving carelessly as in pastime, and as if he bore no sort 
of burden on his back. For that matter he might well do so. 
His rider, though well developed, was too slight to be felt by 
such a creature — and a small portmanteau carried all his ward- 
robe. Beyond this he had no impedimenta ; and to those ac- 
customed only to the modes of travel in a more settled and civ- 
ilized country— with bag and baggage— the traveller might 


THE STERILE PROSPECT AND THE LONELY TRAVELLER. 17 

have appeared — but for a pair of moderately-sized twisted bar- 
rels which we see pocketed on the saddle — ratlier as a gentleman 
of leisure taking his morning ride, than one already far from 
home and increasing at every step the distance between it and 
himself. From our privilege we make bold to mention, that, 
strictly proportioned to their capacities, the last named appur- 
tenances carried each a charge which might have rendered awk- 
ward any inteiTuption ; and it may not be saying too much if we 
add, that it is not improbable to this portion of his equipage our 
traveller was indebted for that security which had heretofore 
obviated all necessity for their use. They were essentials 
which might or might not, in that wild region, have been put in 
requisition ; and the prudence of all experience, in our border 
country, is seldom found to neglect such companionship. 

So much for the personal appearance and the equipment of our 
young traveller. We have followed the usage among novelists, 
and have dwelt thus long upon these details, as we design that 
our adventurer shall occupy no small portion of the reader’s at- 
tention. He will have much to do and to endure in the progress 
of this narrative. 

It may be well, in order to the omission of nothing hereafter 
important, to add that he seems well bred to the manege — and 
rode with that ease and air of indolence, which are characteris- 
tic of the gentry of the south. His garments were strictly suit- 
ed to the condition and custom of the country — a variable cli- 
mate, rough roads, and rude accommodations. They consisted of 
a dark blue frock, of stuff not so line as strong, with pantaloons 
of the same material, all fitting well, happily adjusted to the 
figure of the wearer, yet sufficiently free for any exercise. He 
was booted and spurred, and wore besides, from above the knee 
to the ankle, a pair of buckskin leggins, wrought by the In- 
dians, and trimmed, here and there, with beaded figures that 
.gave a somewhat fantastic air to this portion of his dress. A 
huge cloak strapped over the saddle, completes our portrait, 
which, at the time of which we write, was that of most travel- 
lers along our southern frontiers. We must not omit to state 
that a cap of fur, rather than a fashionable beaver, was also 
the ordinary covering of the head — that of our traveller was 
»f a finely-dressed fur, very far superior to the common fox 


18 


uur RIVEKS. 


skill cap worn by tlie plain backwoodsmen. It declared, some* 
what for the superior social condition of the wearer, even if his 
general air and carriage did not sufficiently do so. 

Our new acq[uaintance had, by this time, emerged into one of 
those regions of brown, broken, heathery waste, thinly mottled 
with tree and shrub, which seem usually to distinguish the first 
steppes on the approach to our mountain country. Though un- 
dulating, and rising occasionally into hill and crag, the tract 
was yet sufficiently monotonous ; rather saddened than relieved 
by the gentle sunset, which seemed to gild in mockery the skel- 
eton woods and forests, just recovering from the keen biting 
blasts of a severe and protracted winter. 

Our traveller, naturally of a dreamy and musing spirit, here 
fell unconsciously into a narrow footpath, an old Indian trace, 
and without pause or observation, followed it as if quite indif- 
ferent whither it led. He was evidently absorbed in that oc- 
cupation — a very unusual one with , youth on horseback — 
that “chewing of the cud of sweet and bitter thought” — which 
testifies for premature troubles and still gnawing anxieties of 
soul. His thoughts were seemingly in full unison with the 
almost grave-like stillness and solemn hush of everything 
around him. His spirit appeared to yield itself up entirely to 
the mournful barrenness and uninviting associations, from which 
all but himself, birds and beasts, and the very insects, seemed 
utterly to have departed. The faint hum of a single wood- 
chuck, which, from its confused motions, appeared to have 
wandered into an unknown territory, and by its uneasy action 
and frequent chirping, seemed to indicate a perfect knowledge 
of the fact, was the only object which at intervals broke through 
the spell of silence which hung so heavily upon the sense. The 
air of our traveller was that of one who appeared unable, how- 
ever desirous he might be, to avoid the train of sad thought 
which such a scene was so eminently calculated to inspire; and, 
of consequence, who seemed disposed, for this object, to call up 
some of those internal resources of one’s own mind and mem- 
ory, which so mysteriously bear us away from the present., 
whatever its powers, its pains, or its pleasures, and to carry us 
into a territory of the heart’s own selection. But, whether the 
past, ill liis tasej Weie niOre to be dreaded than the present ; oi 


THE STEHILE PROSPECT AND THE LONELY TRAVELLER. 19 


whether it was that there was something in the immediate 
prospect which appealed to sterile hopes, and provoking mem- 
ories, it is very certain that our young companion exhibited a 
most singular indifference to the fact that he was in a wild em- 
pire of the forest — a wilderness — and that the sun was rapidly 
approaching his setting. The bridle held heedlessly, lay 

loose upon the neck of his steed ; and it was only when the 
noble animal, more solicitous about his night’s lodging than his 
rider, or rendered anxious by his seeming stupor, suddenly 
came to a full stand in the narrow pathway, that the youth 
seemed to grow conscious of his doubtful situation, and appear- 
ed to shake off his apathy and to look about him. 

He now perceived that he had lost the little Indian pathway 
which he had so long pursued. There was no sign of route or 
road on any side. The prospect was greatly narrowed; he 
was in a valley, and the trees had suddenly thickened around 
him. Certain hills, which his eyes had hitherto noted on the 
right, had disappeared wholly from sight. He had evidently 
deflected greatly from his proper course, and the horizon was 
now too circumscribed to permit him to distinguish any of those 
guiding signs upon which he had relied for his progress. From 
a bald tract he had unwittingly passed into the mazes of a some- 
what thickly-growing wood. 

“ Old Blucher,” he said, addressing his horse, and speaking 
in clear silvery tones — “what have you done, old fellow] 
Whither have you brought us ]” 

The philosophy which tells us, when lost, to give the reins to 
the steed, will avail but little in a region where the horse has 
never been before. This our traveller seemed very well to 
know. But the blame was not chargeable upon Blucher. He 
had tacitly appealed to the beast for his direction when suffer- 
ing the bridle to fall upon his neck. He was not willing, now, 
to accord to him a farther discretion ; and was quite too much 
of the man to forbear any longer the proper exercise of his own 
faculties. With the quickening intelligence in his eyes, and 
the compression of his lips, declaring a resolute will, he pricked 
the animal forward, no longer giving way to those brown mu- 
sings, which, during the previous hour, had not only taken him 
to remote regions but very much out of his way besides. In 


20 


GUY RIVERS. 


sober earnest, he had lost the way, and, in sober earnest, he set 
about to recover it ; but a ten minutes’ farther ride only led 
him to farther involvements ; and he paused, for a moment, to 
hold tacit counsel with his steed, whose behavior was very much 
that of one who understands fully his own, and the predicament 
of his master. Our traveller then dismounted, and, suffering his 
bridle to rest upon the neck of the docile beast, he coursed 
about on all sides, looking close to the earth in hopes to find 
some ancient traces of a pathway. But his search was vain. 
His anxieties increased. The sunlight was growing fainter 
and fainter; and, in spite of the reckless manner, which he still 
wore, you might see a lurking and growing anxiety in his quick 
and restless eye. He was vexed with himself that he had suffered 
his wits to let fall his reins; and his disquiet was but impel 
fectly concealed under the careless gesture and rather philo- 
sophic swing of his graceful person, as, plying his silent way, 
through clumps of brush, and bush, and tree, he vainly peered 
along the earth for the missing traces of the route. He looked 
up for the openings in the tree-tops — he looked west, at the 
rapidly speeding sun, and shook his head at his horse. Though 
bold of heart, no doubt, and tolerably well aware of the usual 
backwoods mode of procedure in all such cases of embarrass- 
ment, our traveller had been too gently nurtured to affect a 
lodge in the wilderness that night — its very “vast contiguity 
of shade” being anything but attractive in his present mood. 
No doubt, he could have borne the necessity as well as any 
other man, but still he held it a necessity to be avoided if possi- 
ble. He had, we are fain to confess, but small passion for that 
“ grassy couch,” and “ leafy bower,” and those other rural feli 
cities, of which your city poets, who lie snug in garrets, are so 
prone to sing ; and always gave the most unromantic preference 
to comfortable lodgings and a good roof; so, persevering in his 
search after the pathway, while any prospect of success remained, 
he circled about until equally hopeless and fatigued ; then, re- 
mounted his steed, and throwing the bridle upon his neck, with 
something of the indifference of despair, he plied his spurs, suffer- 
ing the animal to adopt his own course, which we shall see was 
nevertheless interrupted by the appearance of another party Upon 
Jbe scene, whose i-'^H’oduction we reserve for another chapter. 


•THE ENCOUNTER — THE CHEVALIER D’INDUSTRIE. *21 


CHAPTER II. 

THE HNCO NTER — THE CHEVALIER D’iNDUSTRIE. 

Thus left to liimself, the good steed of our traveller set ofiP; 
without hesitation, and with a free step, that promised, at least, 
to overcome space hurriedly, if it attained not the desired des- 
tination. The rider did not suffer any of his own doubts to 
mar a progress so confidently begun ; and a few minutes car- 
ried the twain, horse and man, deeply, as it were, into the very 
bowels of the forest. The path taken by the steed grew every 
moment more and more intricate and difficult of access, and, 
but for the interruption already referred to, it is not impossible 
that a continued course in the same direction, would have 
brought the rider to a full stop from the sheer inaccessibleness 
of the forest. 

The route thus taken lay in a valley which was necessarily 
more fertile, more densely packed with thicket, tlian the higher 
road which our rider had been pursuing all the day. The 
branches grew more and more close; and, what with the 
fallen trees, the spreading boughs, the undergrowth, and bro- 
ken character of the plain, our horseman was fain to leave 
the horse to himself, finding quite enough to do in saving his 
eyes, and keeping his head from awkward contact with over- 
hanging timber. The pace of the beast necessarily sunk into 
a walk. The question with his rider was, in what direction to 
turn, to extricate himself from the mazes into which he had so 
rashly ridden ? While he mused this question, Blucher started 
suddenly with evidently some new and exciting consciousness. 
His ears were suddenly lifted — his eyes were strained upon 
the copse in front — he halted, as if reluctant to proceed. It 
was evident that his senses had taken in some sights, or sounds, 
which were unusual. 


22 


GUY RIVERS. 


Of course, our traveller was by no means lieedless of this 
behavior on the part of the beast. He well knew the superior 
keenness of the brute senses, over those of the man ; and his 
own faculties were keenly enlisted in the scrutiny. There might 
be wolves along the track — the country was not wanting in 
them ; or, more to be feared, there might be a panther lurking 
along some great overhanging forest bough. There was need 
to be vigilant. Either of these savages would make his pro- 
pinquity known, at a short distance, to the senses of an animal 
so timid as the horse. Or, it might be, that a worse beast still 
— always worst of all when he emulates the nature of the 
beast — man! — might be lurking upon the track! If so, the 
nature of the peril was perhaps greater still, to the rider if not 
the steed. The section of the wild world in which our traveller 
journeyed was of doubtful character ; but sparingly supplied 
with good citizens ; and most certainly infested with many with 
vhom the world had quarrelled — whom it had driven forth in 
shame and terror. 

The youth thought of all these things. But they did not 
overcome his will, or lessen his courage. Preparing himself, as 
well as he might, for all chances, he renewed his efforts to ex*- 
tricate himself from his thick harborage; pressing his steed 
firmly, in a direction which seemed to open fairly, the sky ap- 
pearing more distinctly through the opening of the trees above. 
Meanwhile, he kept his eyes busy, watching right and left. 
Still, he could see nothing, hear nothing, but the slight footfall 
of his own steed. And yet the animal continued uneasy, his 
ears pricked up, Ris head turning, this way and that, with evi- 
dent curiosity ; his feet set down hesitatingly, as if uncertain 
whether to proceed. 

Curious and anxious, our traveller patted the neck of the 
beast affectionately, and, in low tones, endeavored to soothe his 
apprehensions ; 

“ Quietly, Blucher, quietly ? What do you see, old fellow, 
to make you uneasy 1 Is it the snug stall, and the dry fodder, 
and the thirty ears, for which you long. I’faith, old fellow, the 
chance is that both of us will seek shelter and supper in vain 
to-night.” 

Blucher prickei up his ears at the tones, however subdued, 


THE ENCOUNTER — THE CHEVALIER D’INDUSTRIB. 23 

of Ills rider’s voice, which he well knew ; hut his uneasiness 
continued ; and, just when our young traveller, began to feel 
some impatience at his restiffness and coyness, a shrill whistle 
which rang through the forest, from the copse in front, seemed 
at once to determine the cori’ectness of sense in the animal, and 
the sort of beast which had occasioned his anxieties. He was 
not much longer left in doubt as to the cause of the animal’s 
excitement. A few hounds brought him unexpectedly into a 
pathway, still girdled, however, by a close thicket — and hav- 
ing an ascent over a hill, the top of which was of considerable 
elevation compared with the plain he had been pursuing. As 
the horse entered this pathway, and began the ascent, he shyed 
suddenly, and so abruptly, that a less practised rider would 
have lost his seat. 

“ Quiet, beast ! what do you see ?” 

The traveller himself looked forward at his own query, and 
soon discovered the occasion of his steed’s alarm. No occasion 
for alarm, either, judging by appearances ; no panther, no wolf, 
certainly — a man only — looking innocent enough, were it not 
for the suspicious fact that he seemed to have put himself in 
waiting, and stood directly in the midst of the path that the 
horseman was pursuing. 

Our traveller, as we have seen, was not wholly unprepared, 
as well to expect as to encounter hostilities. In addition to his 
pistols, which were well charged, and conveniently at hand, 
we may now add that he carried another weapon, for close 
quarters, concealed in his bosom. The appearance of the stran- 
ger was not, however, so decided a manifestation of hostility, 
as to justify his acting with any haste by the premature use 
of his defences. Besides, no man of sense, and such we take 
our traveller to be, will force a quarrel where he can make his 
way peacefully, like a Christian and a gentleman. Our young 
traveller very qiiietly observed as he approached the stranger — 

“ You scare my horse, sir. Will it please you to give us the 
road ?” 

“ Give you the road? — Oh ! yes ! when you have paid the 
toll, young master !” 

The manner of the man was full of insolence, and the blood, 
in a n.oment, nished to the cheeks of the youth. He divined, 


24 


GUY RIVEltS. 


by instinct, that there was some trouble in preparation for liiiil, 
and his teeth wore silently clenched together, and his soul 
nerved itself for anticipated conflict. He gazed calmly, how- 
ever, though sternly, at the stranger, who appeared nothing 
daunted by the expression in the eyes of the traveller. His 
air was that of quiet indifierence, bordering on contempt, as if 
he knew his duties, or his man, and was resolved upon the 
course he was appointed to pursue. T^hen men meet thus, if 
they are persons of even ordinary intelligence, the instincts are 
quick to conceive and act, and the youth was now more assured 
than ever, that the content awaited him which should try his 
strength. This called up all his resources, and we may infer 
that he possessed them in large degree, from his quiet forbear- 
ance and deliberation, even when he became fully sensible of 
the insolence of the person with whom he felt about to grapple. 

As yet, however, judging from other appearances, there was 
no violence meditated by the stranger. He was simply inso- 
lent, and he was in the way. He carried no weapons — none 
which met the sight, at least, and there was nothing in his per- 
sonal appearance calculated to occasion apprehension. His 
frame was small, his limbs slight, and they did not afford prom- 
ise of much activity. His face was not ill favored, though a 
quick, restless black eye, keen and searching, had in it a lurk- 
ing malignity, like that of a snake, which impressed the specta- 
tor with suspicion at the first casual glance. His nose, long 
and sharp, v/as almost totally fleshless ; the skin being drawn 
so tightly over the bones, as to provoke the fear that any vio- 
lent effort would cause them to force their way through the 
frail integument. An untrimmed beard, run wild ; and a pair 
of whiskers so huge, as to refuse all accordance with the thin 
diminutive cheeks which wore them ; thin lips, and a sharp 
chin ; — completed the outline of a very unprepossessing face, 
which a broad high forehead did not tend very much to improve 
or dignify. 

Though the air of the stranger was insolent, and his manner 
rude, our young traveller was unwilling to decide unfavorably. 
At all events, his policy and mood equally inclined him to 
avoid any proceeding which should precipitate or compel 
violence. 


THE ENCOUNTER — THE CHEVALIER D’INDUSTRIE. 25 

“ There are many good people in the world” — so he thought 
— “who are better than they promise; many good Christians, 
whose aspects would enable them to pass, in any crowd, as 
very tolerable and becoming ruffians. This fellow may be one 
of the unfortunate order of virtuous people, cursed with an un- 
becoming visage. We will see before we shoot.” 

Thus thought our traveller, quickly, as became his situation. 
He determined accordingly, while foregoing none of his pre- 
cautions, to see farther into the designs of the stranger, before 
he resorted to any desperate issues. He replied, accordingly, 
to the requisition of the speaker ; the manner, rather than the 
matter of which, had proved offensive. 

“Toll! You ask toll of me? By what right, sir, and for 
whom do you require it ?” 

“ Look you, young fellow, I am better able to ask questions 
myself, than to answer those of other people. In respect to 
this matter of answering, my education has been wofully neg- 
lected.” 

The reply betrayed some intelligence as well as insolence. 
Our traveller could not withhold the retort. 

“ Ay, indeed I and in some other respects too, not less im- 
portant, if I am to judge from your look and bearing. But you 
mistake your man, let me tell you. I am not the person whom 
you can play your pranks upon with safety, and unless you 
will be pleased to speak a little more respectfully, our parley 
will have a shorter life, and a rougher ending, than you fancy.” 

“ It would scarcely be polite to contradict so promicing a 
young gentleman as yourself,” was the response ; “ but I am 
disposed to believe our intimacy likely to lengthen, rather 
than diminish. I hate to part over-soon with company that 
talks so well ; particularly in these woods, where, unless such a 
chance come about as the present, the lungs of the heartiest 
youth in the land would not be often apt to find the echo they 
seek, though they cried for it at the uttermost pitch of the 
pipe.” 

The look and the language of the speaker were alike sig- 
nificant, and the sinister meaning of the last sentence did not 
escape the notice of him to whom t was addressed. His reply 
was calm, however, and his mind grew more at ease, more col- 


26 


GUY RIVEKS. 


lected, with his growing consciousness of annoyance and dan* 
ger. He answered the stranger in a vein not unlike his own. 

“You are pleased to he eloquent, worthy sir — and, on any 
other occasion, I might not he unwilling to bestow my ear upon 
you ; but as I have yet to find my way out of this labyrinth, 
for the use of which your facetiousness would have me pay a 
tax, I must forego that satisfaction, and leave the enjoyment 
for some better day.” 

“You are well bred, I see, young sir,” was the reply, “and 
this forms an additional reason why I should not desire so soon 
to break our acquaintance. If you have mistaken your road, 
what do you on this? — why are you in this part of the coun- 
try, which is many miles removed from any public thorough- 
fare?” 

“ By what right do you ask the question ?” was the hurried 
and unhesitating response. “ You are impertinent !” 

“ Softly, softly, young sir. Be not rash, and let me recom- 
mend that you be more choice in the adoption of your epithets. 
Impertinent is an ugly word between gentlemen of our habit. 
Touching my right to ask this or that question of young men 
who lose the way, that’s neither here nor there, and is impor- 
tant ill no way. But, I take it, I should have some right in 
this matter, seeing, young sir, that you are upon the turnpike 
and I am the gate-keeper who must take the toll.” 

A sarcastic smile passed over the lips of the man as he uttered 
the sentence, which was as suddenly succeeded, however, by an 
expression of gravity, partaking of an air of the profoundest 
business. The traveller surveyed him for a moment before he 
replied, as if to ascertain in what point of view properly to un- 
derstand his conduct. 

“ Turnpike ! this is something new. I never heard of a turn- 
pike and a gate for toll, in a part of the world in which men, or 
honest ones at least, are not yet commonly to be found. You 
think rather too lightly, my good sir, of my claim to that most 
vulgar commodity called common sense, if you suppose me likely 
to swallow this silly story.” 

“ Oh, doubtless you are a very sagacious young man, I 
make no question,” said the other, with a sneer — “ but you’ll 
have to pay the turnpike for aB ” 


THE ENCOUNTER — THE CHEVALIER i. INDUSTRIE. 27 


“ You speak confidently on this point ; hut, if I am to pay this 
turnpike, at least, I may he permitted to know who is its pro- 
prietor.” 

“ To he sure you may. I am always well pleased to satisfy 
the douhts and curiosity of young travellers who go abroad for 
information. I take you to he one of this class.” 

“Confine yourself, if you please, to the matter in hand — I 
grow weary of this chat,” said the youth with a haughty incli- 
nation, that seemed to have its effect even upon him with whom 
he spoke. 

“ Your question is quickly answered. You have heard of the 
Pony Cluh — have you not?” 

“ I must confess my utter ignorance of such an institution. I 
have never heard even the name before.” 

“You have not — then really it is high time to begin the work 
of enlightenment. You must know, then, that the Pony Club 
is the proprietor of everything and everybody, throughout the 
nation, and in and about this section.* It is the king, without 
let or limitation of powers, for sixty miles around. Scarce a 
man in Georgia but pays in some sort to its support — and judge 
and jury alike contribute to its treasuries. Few dispute its au- 
thority, as you will have reason to discover, without suffering 
condign and certain punishment; and, unlike the tributaries 
and agents of other powers, its servitors, like myself, invested 
with jurisdiction over certain parts and interests, sleep not in 
the performance of our duties ; but, day and night, obey its dic- 
tates, and perform the various, always laborious, and sometimes 
dangerous functions which it impcces upon us. It finds us in 
men, in money, in horses. It assesses the Oherokees, and they 
yield a tithe, and sometimes a greater proportion of their ponies, 
in obedience to its requisitions. Hence, indeed, the name of the 
club. It relieves young travellers, like yourself, of their small 
change — their sixpences ; and when they happen to have a good 
patent lever, such a one as a smart young gentleman like your- 
self is very apt to carry about him, it is not scrupulous, but 
helps them of that too, merely by way of pas-time^ 

And the ruffian chuckled in a half-covert manner at his own 
pun. 

“T:uly, a well-conceived sort of sovereignty, and doubtless, 


28 


GUY RIVERS. 


sufficiently well served, if I may infer from the representative 
before me. You must do a large business in this way, most 
worthy sir.” 

“ Why, that we do, and your remark reminds me that I have 
quite as little time to lose as yourself. You now understand, 
young sir, tlie toll you have to pay, and the proprietor who 
claims it.” 

“ Perfectly — perfectly. You will not suppose me dull again, 
most candid keeper of the Pony Turnpike. But have you made 
up your mind, in earnest, to relieve me of such trifling encum- 
brances as those you have just mentioned V* 

“ I should be strangely neglectful of the duties of my station, 
not to speak of the discourtesy of such a neglect to yourself, 
were I to do otherwise ; always supposing you burdened with 
such encumbrances. I put it to yourself, whether such would 
net be the effect of my omission.” 

“ It most certainly would, most frank and candid of all the 
outlaws. Your punctiliousness on this point of honor entitles 
you, in my mind, to an elevation above and beyond all others 
of your profession. I admire the grace of your manner, in the 
commission of acts which the more tame and temperate of our 
kind are apt to look upon as irregular and unlovely. You, I 
see, have the true notion of the thing.” 

The ruffian looked with some doubt upon the youth — inqui- 
ringly, as if to account in some way for the singular coolness, 
not to say contemptuous scornfulness, of his replies and manner. 
There was something, too, of a searching malignity in his glance, 
that seemed to recognise in his survey features which brought 
into activity a personal emotion in his own bosom, not at vari- 
ance, indeed, with the craft he was pursuing, but fully above 
and utterly beyond it. Dismissing, however, the expression, he 
continued in the manner and tone so tacitly adopted between 
the parties. 

“ I am heartily glad, most travelled young gentleman, that 
your opinion so completely coincides with my own, since it as- 
sures me I shall not be compelled, as is sometimes the case in 
the performance of my duties, to offer any rudeness to one 
— seemingly so well taaght as yourself. Knowing the relation- 
chip between us so fully, you can have no reasonable objection 


THE ENCOUNTER — THE CHEVALIER D’INDUSTRIE. 29 


to conform quietly to all my requisitions, and yield the toll- 
keeper his dues.” 

Our traveller had been long aware, in some degree, of the 
kind of relationship between himself and his companion ; but, 
relying on his defences, and perhaps somewhat too much on 
his own personal capacities of defence, and, possibly, something 
curious to see how far the love of speech in his assailant might 
carry him in a dialogue of so artificial a character, he forbore as 
yet a resort to violence. He found it excessively difficult, how- 
ever, to account for the strange nature of the transaction so far 
as it had gone ; and the language of the robber seemed so in- 
consistent with his pursuit, that, at intervals, he was almost led 
to doubt whether the whole was not the clever jest of some coun- 
try sportsman, who, in the guise of a levyer of contributions upon 
the traveller, would make an acquaintance, such as is frequent 
in the South, terminating usually in a ride to a neighboring 
plantation, and pleasant accommodations so long as the stranger 
might think proper to avail himself of them. 

If, on the other hand, the stranger was in reality the ruffian 
he represented himself, he knew not how to account for his de- 
lay in the assault — a delay, to the youth’s mind, without an 
object — unless attributable to a temper of mind like that of 
Robin Hood, and coupled in the person before him, as in that 
of the renowned king of the outlaws, wnth a peculiar freedom 
and generosity of habit, and a gallantry and adroitness which, 
in a different field, had made him a knight worthy to follow and 
fight for Baldwin and the Holy Cross. Our young traveller 
was a roinanticist, and all of tliese notions came severally into 
his thoughts. Whatever might have been the motives of con- 
duct in the robber, who thus audaciously announced himself the 
member of a club notorious on the frontiers of Georgia and 
among the Cherokees for its daring outlawries, the youth deter- 
mined to keep up the game so long as it continued such. After 
a brief pause, he replied to the above politely-expresf ed demand 
in the following language : — 

“ Your request, most unequivocal sir, would seem but reason 
able ; and so considering it, I have bestowed due reflection upon 
it. Unhappily, however, for the Pony Club and its worthy rep- 
resentative, I am quite too poorly provided with worldly wealth 


30 


GUY RIVERS. 


at this moment to part with much of it. A few shillings to pro- 
cure you a cravat — such as you may get of Kentucky manufac- 
ture — I should not object to. Beyond this, however (and the 
difficulty grieves me sorely), I am so perfectly incapacitated 
from doing anything, that I am almost persuaded, in order to 
the bettering of my own condition, to pay the customary fees, 
and applying to your honorable body for the privilege of mem- 
bership, procure those means of lavish generosity which my 
necessity, and not my will, prevents me from bestowing upon 
you.” 

“A very pretty idea,” returned he of the road; “and under 
such circumstances, your jest about the cravat from Kentucky is 
by no means wanting in proper application. But the fact is, 
our numbers are just now complete — our ranks are full — and 
the candidates for the honor arc so numerous as to leave little 
chance for an applicant. You might be compelled to wait a 
long season, unless the Georgia penitentiary and Georgia guard 
shall create a vacancy in youi- behalf.” 

“ Truly, the matter is of very serious regret,” with an air of 
much solemnity, replied tlie youth, who seemed admirably to 
have caught up the spirit of the dialogue — “ and it grieves me 
the more to know, that, under this view of the case, I can no 
more satisfy you than I can serve myself. It is quite unlucky 
that your influence is insufficient to procure me admission into 
your fraternity; since it is impossible that I should pay the 
turnpike, when the club itself, by refusing me membership, will 
not permit me to acquire the means of doing so. So, as the 
woods grow momently more dull and dark, and as I may have 
to ride far for a supper, I am constrained, however unwilling 
to leave good company, to wish you a fair evening, and a long 
swing of fortune, most worthy knight of the highway, and trusty 
representative of the Pony Club.” 

With these woi-as, the youth, gathering up the bridle of the 
horse, and slightly touching him with the rowel, would have 
proceeded on his course; but the position of the outlaw now 
underwent a corresponding change, and, grasping the rein of 
the animal, he arrested his farther progress. 

“I am less willing to separate than yourself from good com- 
pany, gentle youth, as you may perceive; since I so carefully 


THE ENCOUNTER — THE CHEVALIER DINDUSTRIE. 31 

restrain you from a ride over a road so perilous as this. You 
have spoken like a fair and able scholar this afternoon ; and 
talents, such as you possess, come too seldom into our forests to 
Bulfer them, after so brief a sample, to leave us so abruptly 
You must come to terms with the turnpike.” 

“ Take your hands from my horse, sirrah !” was the only re- 
sponse made by the youth ; his tone and manner corresponding 
with the change in the situation of the parties. “ I would not 
do you harm willingly ; I want no man’s blood on my head ; 
but my pistols, let me assure yt>u, are much more readily come 
at than my purse. Tempt me not to use them — stand from the 
way.” 

“ It may not be,” replied the robber, with a composure and 
coolness that underwent no change ; “ your threats ajffect mo 
not. I have not taken my place here without a perfect knowl- 
edge of all its dangers and consequences. You had better come 
• peaceably to terms ; for, were it even the case that you could 
escape me, you have only to cast your eye up the path before 
you, to be assured of the utter impossibility of escaping those 
who aid me. The same glance will also show you the tollgate, 
which you could not see before. Lock ahead, young sir, and 
be wise in time ; and let me perform my duties without hin- 
drance.” 

Casting a furtive glance on the point indicated by the ruffian, 
the youth saw, for the first time, a succession of bars — a rail 
fence, in fact, of more than usual heiglit — completely crossing 
the narrow pathway and precluding all passage. Approach- 
ing the place of strife, the same glance assured him. were 
two men, well armed, evidently the accomplices of the robber 
who had pointed to them as such. The prospect grew more 
and more perilous, and the youth, whose mind was one of thkt 
sort which avaHs itself of its energies seemingly only in emei- 
gencies, beheld his trile course, with a moment’s reflection, and 
hesitated not a single moment in its adoption. He saw that 
something more was necessary than to rid himself merely of 
the ruffian immediately before him, and that an unsuccessful 
blow or shot would leave him entirely at the mercy of the gang. 
To escape, a free rein must be given to the steed, on which he 
felt confident he could rely ; and, though prompted by the most 


GUY RIVERS. 


natural impulse to send a bullet through the head of his assail- 
ant, he wisely determined on a course which, as it would he un- 
looked for, had therefore a better prospect of success. 

Without further pause, drawing suddenly from his bosom the 
bowie-knife commonly worn in those regions, and bending for- 
ward, he aimed a blow at the ruffian, which, as he had antici- 
pated, was expertly eluded — the assailant, sinking under the 
neck of the steed, and relying on the strength of the rein, which 
he still continued to hold, to keep him from falling, while at the 
same time he kept the check uj'on the horse. 

This movement was that which the youth had looked for and 
desired. The blow was bi; a feint, for, suddenly turning the 
direction of the knife when hio enemy was out of its reach, he 
cut the bridle upon which the latter hung, and the head of the 
horse, freed from the restraint, was at once elevated in air. The 
suddenness of his motion whirled the ruffian to the ground ; 
while the rider, wre»thirig his hands in the mane of the noble 
animal, gave him a free spur, and plunged at once over the 
struggling wretch, in whose cheek the glance of his hoof left a 
deep gash. 

The steed bounded forward ; nor did the youth seek to re- 
strain him, though advancing full up the hill and in the teeth 
of his enemies. Satisfied that he was approaching their station, 
the accomplices of the foiled ruffian, who had seen the whole 
affray,sunk into the covert ; but, what was their mortification to 
perceive the traveller, though without any true command over 
his steed, by an adroit use of the broken bridle, so wheel him 
round as to bring him, in a few leaps, over the very ground of 
the strife, and before the staggering robber had yet fully arisen 
from the path. By this manoeuvre he placed himself in ad- 
vance of the now approaching banditti. Driving his spurs 
resolutely and unsparingly into the flanks of his horse, while 
encouraging him with well known words of cheer, he rushed 
over the scene of his late struggle with a velocity that set all 
restraint at defiance— —his late opponent scarcely being able to 
put himself in safety. A couple of shots, that whistled>wide of 
the mark, announced his extrication from the difficulty — but, to 
his surprise, his enemie.3 1 ad been at work behind him, gjid the 
edge of the copse through which he was about to pass, wag 


tHE ENCOUNTER — TUK CHEVALIER DTNDUSTRIE. 


blockaded with bars in like manner witli the path in front 
He heard the shouts of the ruffians in the rear — he felt the 
danger, if not impracticability of his pausing for the removal 
of the rails, and, in the spirit which had heretofore marked 
his conduct, he determined upon the most daring endeavor. 
T 'hr owing off all restraint from his steed, and fixing himself 
firmly in the stirrup and saddle, he plunged onward to the leap, 
and, to the chagrin of the pursuers, vrho had reli’ed much upon 
the obstruction, and who now appeared in pursuit, the noble 
animal, without a moment’s reluctance, cleared it handsomely. 

Another volley of shot rang in the ears of the youth, as he 
passed the impediment, and he felt himself wounded in the side. 
The wound gave him little concern at the moment, for, under 
the excitement of the strife, he felt not even its smart ; and, 
turning himself upon the saddle, he drew one of his own weap- 
ons from its case, and discharging it, by way of taunt, in the 
faces of the outlaws, laughed loud with the exulting spirit of 
youth at the successful result of an adventure due entirely to 
his own perfect coolness, and to the warm courage which had 
been his predominating feature from childhood. 

The incident just narrated had dispersed a crowd of gloomy 
reflections, so that the darkness which now overspread the scene, 
coupled as it was with the cheerlessness of prospect before him, 
had but little iftfluence upon his spirits. Still, ignorant of his 
course, and beginning to be enfeebled by the loss of blood, he 
moderated his speed, and left it to the animal to choose his 
own course. But he was neither so cool nor so sanguine, to 
relax so ‘greatly in his speed as to permit of his being overtaken 
by the desperates whom he had so cleverly foiled. He knew 
the danger, the utter hopelessness, indeed, of a second encounter 
with the same persons. He felt sure that he would be suftered 
no such long parley as before. Without restraining his horse, 
our young traveller simply regulated his speed by a due esti- 
mate of the capacity of the outlaws for pursuit a-foot ; and, 
without knowing whither he sped, having left the route wholly 
to the horse, he was suddenly relieved by finding himself upon 
a tolerably broad road, which, in the imperfect twilight, he con- 
cluded to be the same from which, in his mistimed musings 
he had suffered his horse to turn aside. He had no means te 


84 


GUY RIVERS 


ascertain the fact, conclusively, and, in sooth, no time ; for now 
he began to feel a strange sensation of weakness; his eyes 
swam, and grew darkened; a numbness paralyzed his whole 
frame; a sickness seized upon his heart; and, after sundry 
feeble efforts, under a, strong will, to command and compel his 
powers, they finally gave way, and he sunk from his steed upon 
the long grass, and lay unconscious; — his last thought, ere hie 
senses 'left him, being that of death ! Here let us leave him for 
a little space, while we hurriedly seek bet*Ar knowledge of him 
in other quarters. 


YOtiNG LOVE — THE RETROSPECT 




CHAPTER III. 

VOT^XG LOVE — THE RETROSPECT. 

It will not hurt our young traveller, to leave him on the 
greensward, in the genial spring-time ; and, as the night gathers 
over him. and a helpful insensibility interposes for the relief of 
pain, we may avail ourselves of the respite to look into the 
family chronicles, and show the why and wherefore of this errant 
journey, the antecedents and the relations of our hero. 

Ralph Colleton, the young traveller whose person we have 
described, and whose most startling adventure in life, we have 
just witnessed, was the only son of a Carolinian, who could 
boast the best blood of English nobility in his veins. The sire, 
however, had outlived his fortunes, and, late in life, had bee:j 
compelled to abandon the place of his nativity — an adventurer, 
struggling against a proud stomach, and a thousand embarrass- 
ments — and to bury himself in the less known, hut more secure 
and economical regions of Tennessee. Born to affluence, with 
wealth that seemed adequate to all reasonable desires — a noble 
plantation, numerous slaves, and the host of friends who neces- 
sarily come with such a condition, his individual improvidence, 
thoughtless extravagance, and lavish mode of life — a habit not 
uncommon in the South — had rendered it necessary, at the age 
of fifty, when the mind, not less than the body, requires repose 
rather than adventure, that he should emigrate from tlie place 
of his birth; and with resources diminished to a cipher, en- 
deavor to break ground once more in unknown forests, and 
commence the toil| and troubles of life anew. With an only 
son (the youth before us) then a mere hoy, and no other family, 
Colonel Ralph Colleton did not hesitate at such an exile. He 
had found out the worthlessness of men’s professions at a period 
not very remote from the general knowledge of his loss of foT- 


86 GUY RIVEll^. 

tune : ami having no other connection claiming from him eithet 
countenance or support, and but a single relative from whom 
separation might be painful, he felt, comparatively speaking, 
but few of the privations usually following such a removal. 
An elder brother, like himself a widower, with a single child, 
a daughter, formed the whole of his kindred left behind him in 
Carolina ; and, as between the two brothers there had existed, 
at all timfes, some leading dissimilar points of disposition and 
character, an occasional correspondence, due rather to form than 
to affection, served all necessary purposes in keeping up the 
sentiment of kindred in their bosoms. There were but few 
real aifinities which could bring them together. They never 
could altogether understand, and certainly had but a limited 
desire to appreciate or to approve many of the several and 
distinct habits of one another j and thus they separated with 
but few sentiments of genuine concern. William Colleton, the 
elder brother, was the proprietor of several thousand highly 
valuable and pleasantly-situated acres, upon the waters of the 
Santee — a river which irrigates a region in the state of South 
Carolina, famous for its wealth, lofty pride, polished manners, 
and noble and considerate hospitality. Affluent equally with 
his younger brother by descent, marriage had still further con- 
tributed toward tbe growth of possessions, which a prudent 
management had always kept entire and always improving. 
Such was the condition of William Colleton, the uncle of the 
young Ralph, then a mere child, when be was taken by his fa* 
ther into Tennessee. 

There, the fortune of the adventurer still maintained its an- 
cient aspect. He had bought lands, and engaged in trade, and 
made sundry efforts in various and honorable ways, but with- 
out success. Vocation after vocation had with him a common 
and certain termination, and after many years of profitless ex 
periment, the ways of prosperity were as far remote from his 
knowledge and as perplexing to his pursuit, as at the first h Dur 
of his enterprise. In worldly concerns he stood just where he 
had started fifteen years before ; with this difference for the 
worse, however, that he had grown older in this space of time, 
less equal to the tasks of adventure j and with the moral ener 
^es checked as they had been by continual disappointments, 


YOUNG LOVE — THE RETROSPECT. 


37 


recoiling in despondency and gloom, with trying emphasis, upon 
a spirit otherwise nohlc and sufficiently daring for every legiti- 
mate and not mnvonted species of trial and occasion. Still, he 
had learned litMe, beyond hauteur and querulousness, from the 
lessons of expei ience. Economy was not more the inmate of 
his dwelling than when he was blessed with the large income 
of his birthright ; but, extravagantly generous as ever, his house 
was the abiding-place of a most lavish and unwise hospitality 

His brother, William Colleton, on the other hand, with means 
hourly increasing, exhibited a disposition narrowing at times 
into a selfishness the most pitiful. He did not, it is true, forego 
or forget any of those habits of. freedom and intercourse in his 
household and with those about him, which form so large a 
practice among the people of the south. He could give a din- 
ner, and furnish an ostentatious entertainment — lodge his guest 
in the style of a prince for weeks together, nor exhibit a feature 
likely to induce a thought of intrusion in the mind of his in- 
mate. In public, the populace had no complaints to urge of his 
peimriousness ; and in all outward shows he manifested the 
same general characteristics which marked the habit of the class 
to which he belonged. 

But his selfishness lay in things not so much on the surface. 
It was more deep and abiding in its character ; and consisted in 
the false estimate which he made of the things around him. He 
had learned to value wealth as a substitute for mind — for mor- 
als — for all that is lofty, and all that should be leading, in the 
consideration of society. He valued few things beside. He 
had different emotions for the rich from those which he enter- 
tained for the poor; and, from perceiving that among men, 
money could usurp all places — could defeat virtue, command 
respect denied to morality and truth, and secure a real worship 
when the Deity must be content with shows and symbols — he 
gradually gave it the chief place in his regard. He valued 
wealth as the instrument of authority. It secured him power ; 
a power, however, which he had no care to employ, and which 
he valued only as tributary to the maintenance of that haughty 
ascendency over men which was his heart’s first passion. He 
was neither miser nor mercenary ; he did not labor to accumu- 
late — perhaps because he was a lucky accumulator without any 


38 


GUY RIVERS. 


painstaking of his own : but he was, b}' nature an aristocrat, 
and not unwilling to compel respect through the means of 
money, as through any other more noble agency of intellect or 
morals. 

There was only one respect in which a likeness between the 
fortunes of the two brothers might be found to exist. After a 
gi'ateful union of a few years, they had both lost their wives. 
A single child, in the case of each, had preserved and hallowea 
to them the memories of their mothers. To the younger brother 
Ralph, a son had been horn, soothing the sorrows of the exile, 
and somewhat compensating his loss. To William Colleton, 
the elder brother, his wife had left a single and very lovely 
daughter, the sweet and beautiful Edith, a girl but a few months 
younger than her cousin Ralph. It was the redeeming feature, 
in the case of the surviving parents, that they each gave to 
their motherless children, the whole of that affection — warm 
in both cases — which had been enjoyed by the departed 
mothers. 

Separated from each other, for years, by several hundred 
miles of uncultivated and untravelled forest, the brothers did 
not often meet ; and the bonds of brotherhood waxed feebler 
and feebler, with the swift progress of successive years. Still, 
they corresponded, and in a tone and temper that seemed to 
answer for the existence of feelings, which neither, perhaps, 
would have been so forward as to assert warmly, if challenged 
to immediate answer. Suddenly, however, when young Ralph 
was somewhere about fifteen, his uncle expressed a wish to see 
him ; and, whether through a latent and real affection, or a 
feeling of self-rebuke for previous neglect, he exacted from his 
brother a reluctant consent that the youth should dwell in his 
family, while receiving his education in a region then better 
prepared to bestow it with profit to the student. The two 
young cousins met in Georgia for the first time, and, after a 
brief summer journey together, in which they frequented the 
most favorite watering places, Ralph was separated from Edith, 
whom he had just begun to love with interest, and despatched 
to college. 

The separation of the son from the father, however beneficial 
it might be to the former in certain respects of education, 


YOUNG LOVE — THE RETROSPECT. 


39 


proved fatal to the latter. He had loved the hoy even more 
than he knew ; had learned to live mostly in the contemplation 
of the youth’s growth and development ; and his absence prey- 
ed upon his heart, adding to h'S sense of defeat in fortune, and 
the loneliness and waste of his .life. The solitude in which he 
dwelt, after the boy’s depailure, he no longer desired to disturb ; 
and he pined as hopelessly in his absence, as if he no longer 
had a motive or a hope to prompt exertion. He had anticipa- 
ted this, in some degree, when he yielded to his brother’s argu- 
ments and entreaties ; hut, conscious of the uses and advantages 
of education to his son. 1 e felt the selfishness to be a wrong to 
the boy, which would deny him the benefits of that larger civ- 
ilization, which the uncle promised, on any pretexts. A calm re 
view of his own arguments against the transfer, showed them to be 
suggested cy his own w^ants. With a manly resolution, there- 
fore, rather to sacrifice his own heart, than deny to his child the 
advantages which were held out by his brother, he consented to 
his departure. The reproach of selfishness, which William 
Colleton had not spared, brought about his resolve ; and with a 
labored cheerfulness he made his preparations, and accompanied 
the youth to Georgia, where his uncle had agreed to meet him. 
They parted, with affectionate tears and embraces, never to 
meet again. A few months only had elapsed when the father 
sickened. But he never communicated to his son, or brother, 
the secret of hiS sufferings and grief. Worse, he never sought 
relief in change or medicine ; but, brooding in the solitude, 
gnawing his own heart in silence, he gradually pined away, and, 
in a brief year, he was gathered to his fathers. He died, like 
many similarly-tempered natures, of no known disorder ! 

The boy received the tidings with a burst of grief, whicli 
seemed t Jireaten his existence. But the sorrows of youth 
are usually short-lived, particularly in the case of eager, ener- 
getic natures. O'he exchange of solitude for the crowd ; the 
emulation of college life ; the sports and communion of youthful 
associates — served, after a while, to soothe the sorrow's of Ralph 
Colleton. Indeed, 1 e found it necessary that he should bend 
himself earnestly to his studies, that he might forget his griefs. 
And, in a measure he succeeded ; at least, he subdued their 
more fond expression, and only grew sedate, instead of passion- 


40 


GUY RIVERS. 


ate. The bruises of his heait had brought the energies of his 
luiiid to their more active uses. 

From fifteen to twenty is no very long leap in the hlst jry of 
youth. We will make it now, and place the young Ilalph— ’ 
now something older in mind as in body — retui'ned from col- 
lege, finely formed, intellectual, handsome, vivacious, manly, 
spirited, and susceptible — as such a person should be — once 
again in close intimacy with his beautiful cousin. The season 
which had done so much for him, had been no less liberal with 
her ; and we now survey her, the expanding flower, all bloom 
and fragrance, a tribute of the spring, flourishing in the bosom 
of the more forward summer. 

Ualph came from college to his uncle’s domicil, now his only 
home. The circumstances of his father’s fate and fortune, con- 
tinually acting upon his mind and sensibilities from boyhood, 
had made his character a marked and singular one — proud, 
iealous, and sensitive, to an extreme which was painful not 
merely to himself, but at times to others. But he was noble, 
lofty, sincere, without a touch of meanness in his composition, 
above circumlocution, with a simplicity of character strikingly 
great, but without anything like puerility or weakness. 

The children — for such, in reference to their experience, wo 
may venture to call them — had learned to recognise in the 
progress of a very brief period but a single existence. Ralph 
looked only for Edith, and cared nothing for other sunlight ; 
while Edith, with scarcely less reserve than her bolder compan- 
ion, had speech and thought for few besides Ralph. Circum- 
stances contributed not a little to what would appear the joita- 
ral growth of this mutual dependence. They were perpetually 
left together, and with few of those tacit and readily -understo-od 
restraints, unavoidably accompanying the presence of others 
older than themselves. Residing, save at few brief intervals, 
at the xdantation of Colonel Colleton, they saw little and knew 
less of society ; and the worthy colonel, not less ambitious than 
proud, having become a politician, had left them a thousand 
opportunities of intimacy which had now become so gi-ateful to 
them both. Half of his time was taken .ij. in public matters. 
A leader of his party in the section of country in which he lived, 
he was always busy in the responsibilities imposed upon hiip 


YOUNO LOVi:: — THE RETROSPECT. 


41 


by such a station ; and, what with canvassing at election-polls 
and muster-gronnds, and dancing attendance as a silent voter 
at the halls of the state legislature, to the membership of which 
his constituents had returned him, he saw but little of his family, 
and they almost as little of him. His influence grew unimpor- 
tant with his Wards, in proportion as it obtained vigor with his 
faction — was seldom referred to by them, and, perhaps, if it 
had been, such was the rapid growth of their affections, would 
have been but little regarded. He appeared to take it for 
granted, that, having provided them with all the necessaries 
called for by life, he had done quite enough for their benefit ; 
and actually gave far less of his consideration to his own and 
only child than he did to his plantation, and the success of a 
party measure, involving possibly the office of doorkeeper to 
the house, or of tax-collector to the district. The taste for do- 
mestic life, which at one period might have been held with him 
exclusive, had been entirely swallowed up and forgotten in his 
public relations ; and entirely overlooking the fact, that, in the 
silent goings-on of time, the infantile will cease to be so, he 
never seemed to observe that the children whom he had brought 
together but a few years before might not with reason be con- 
sidered children any longer. 

Children, indeed! What years had they not lived — what 
volumes of experience in human affections and feelings had the 
influence and genial warmth of a Carolina sun not unfolded to 
their spirits — in the few sweet and uninterrupted seasons of 
their intercourse. How imperious were the dictates of that na- 
ture, to whose immethodical but honest teachings they had been 
almost entirely given up. They lived together, walked togeth- 
er, rode together — read in the same books, conned the same 
lessons, studied the same prospects, saw life through the common 
medium of mutual associations ; and lived happy only in the 
sweet unison of emotions gathered at a common fountain, and 
equally dear, and equally necessary to them both. And this is 
love — they loved ! 

They loved, but the discovery was yet to be made by them. 
Living in its purest luxuries — in the perpetual communion of 
the only one necessary object — having no desire and as little 
prospect of change — ignorant of and altogether untutored by 


42 


GUY RIVERS. 


the vicissitades of life — enjoying the sweet association which 
had been the parent of that passion, dependent now entirely 
upon its continuance — they had been content, and had never 
given themselves any concern to analyze its origin, or to find 
for it a name. A momentary doubt — the presages of a dim 
perspective — would have taught them better. Had there been 
a single moment of discontent in their lives at this period, they 
had not remained so long in such ignorance. The fear of its 
loss can alone teach us the true value of our treasure. But the 
discovery was at hand. 

A pleasant spring afternoon in April found the two young 
people, Ralph and Edith — the former now' twenty years of age, 
and the latter in the same neighborhood, half busied, half idle, 
in the long and spacious piazza of the family mansion. They 
could not be said to have been employed, for Edith rarely made 
much progress with the embroidering needle and delicate fabric 
in her hands, while Ralph, something more absorbed in a ro- 
mance of the day, evidently exercised little concentration of 
mind in scanning its contents. He skimmed, at first, rather 
than studied, the pages before him ; conversing occasionally 
with the young maiden, wdio, sitting beside Jiim, occasionally 
glanced at the volume in his hand, with something of an air of 
discontent that it should take even so much of his regard from 
herself. As he proceeded, however, in its perusal, the story 
grew upon him, and he became unconscious of her occasional 
eftbrts to control his attention. The needle of Edith seemed 
also disposed to avail itself of the aberrations of its mistress, 
and to rise in rebellion ; and, having pricked her finger more 
than once in the effort to proceed with her work while her eyes 
wandered to her companion, she at length threw down the gauzy 
fabric upon which she had been so partially employed, and has- 
tily rising from her seat, passed into the adjoining apartment. 

Her departure was not attended to by her compani(<n, who 
for a time continued his perusal of the book. No great while, 
however, elapsed, when, rising also from his seat with a hasty 
exclamation of surprise, he threw down the volume and follow'ed 
her into the room where she sat pensively meditating over 
thoughts and feelings as vagua and inscrutable to her mind, as 
they were clear and familiar to her heart. With a degree of 


YOUNG LOVE — THE RETROSPECT. 


43 


warm impetuosity, even exaggerated beyond his usual manner, 
which bore at all times this characteristic, he approached her, 
and, seizing her hand passionately in his, exclaimed hastily — 

“ Edith, my sweet Edith, how unhappy that book has made 
me !” 

“How so, Ralph — why should it make you unhappy?” 

“ It has taught me much, Edith — very much, in the last half 
hour. It has spoken of privation and disappointment as the 
true elements of life, and has shown me so many pictures of so- 
ciety in such various situations, and with so much that I feel 
assured must be correct, that I am unable to resist its impres- 
sions. We have been happy — so happy, Edith, and for sn 
many years, that I can not bear to think that either of us should 
be less so ; and yet that volume has taught me, in the story of 
parallel fortunes with ours, that it may be so. It has given me 
a long lesson in the hollow economy of that world which men 
seek, and name society. It has told me that we, or I, at least, 
may be made and kept miserable for ever.” 

“How, Ralph, tell me, ! pray you — how should that book 
have taught you this strange notion ? Why ? What book is it ? 
That stupid story !” was the gasping exclamation of the aston- 
ished girl — astonished no less by the impetuous manner than the 
strong language of the youth ; and, with the tenderest concern 
she laid her hand upon his arm, while her eyes, full of the live- 
liest interest, yet moistened with a tearful apprehension, were 
fixed earnestly upon his own. 

“It is a stupid book, a very stupid book — a story of false 
sentiment, and of mock and artificial feelings, of which I know, 
and care to know, nothing. But it has told me so much that 
I feel is true, and that chimes in with my own experience. It 
das told me much besides, that I am glad to have been taught 
Hear me then, dear Edith, and smile not carelessly at my words, 
tbr I have now learned to tremble when I speak, in fear lest I 
jhould offend you.” 

She would have spoken words of assurance — she would 
have taught him to think better of her affections and their 
strength ; but his impetuosity checked her in her speech. 

“ I know what you would say, and my heart thanks you foi 
it, as if its very life depended Upon the utterance. You would 


44 


GUY RIVERS. 


tell me to bave no such fear ; but the fear is a portion of myself 
now — it is my heart itself. Hear me then, Edith — my Edith, 
if you will so let me call you.” 

Her hand rested on his assuringly, with a gentle pressure 
He continued — 

Hitherto we have lived with each other, only with each 
other — we have loved each other, and I have almost only 
loved you. Neither of us, Edith (may I believe it of you ?) has 
known much of any other affection. But how long is this to 
last? that book — where is it? but no matter — it has taught 
me that, now, when a few months will carry us both into the 
world, it is improper that our relationship should continue. It 
says we can not be the children any longer that w'e have been 
— that such intercourse — I can now perceive why — would be 
injurious to you. Do you understand me ?” 

The blush of a first consciousness came over the cheek of the 
maiden, as she withdrew her hand from his passionate clasp. 

“ Ah ! I see already,” he exclaimed : “ you too have learned 
the lesson. And is it thus — and we are to be happy no longer !” 

“Ralph !” — she endeavored to speak, but could proceed no 
further, and her hand was again, silently and without objection, 
taken into the grasp of his. The youth, after a brief pause, re- 
sumed, in a tone, which though it had lost much of its impetu- 
ousness, was yet full of stern resolution. 

“ Hear me, Edith — but a word — a single word. I love you, 
believe me, dear Edith, 1 love you.” 

Tlie effect of this declaration was scarcely such as the youth 
desired. She had been so much accustomed to his warm admi- 
ration, indicated frequently in phrases such as these, that it had 
the effect of restoring to her much of her self-possession, of 
which the nature of the previous dialogue had a little deprived 
hei ; and, in the most natural manner in the world, she replied 

perhaps too, we may add, with much of the artlessness of 
art — 

“ Why, to be sure you do. Cousin Ralph— it would be some- 
thing strange indeed if you did not. I believe you love me, 
as I am sure you can never doubt how much you are beloved 
by me 1” 

Cousm Ralph — Ralph P* exclaimed the youth with 


YOt?NG LOVE — THE RETROSPECT. 


45 


something of his former impetuosity, emphasizing ironically as 
he spoke the unfortunate himily epithet — “Ah, Edith, you will 
not understand me — nor indeed, an hour ago, should I alto- 
gether have understood myself. Suddenly, dear Edith, how- 
ever, as I read certain passages of that book, the thought darted 
through my brain like lightning, and I saw into my own heart, 
as I had never been permitted to see into it before. I there 
saw how much I loved you — not as my cousin — not as my 
sister, as you sometimes would have me call you, but as I will 
not call you again — but as — as — ” 

“ As what 

“ As my wifcy Edith — as my own, own wife !” 

Ke clasped her hand in his, while his head sunk, and his lips 
were pressed upon the taper and trembling fingers Avhich grew 
cold and powerless within his grasp. 

What a volume was at that moment opened, for the first time, 
before the gaze and understanding of the half-affrighted and 
deep-throbbing heart of that gentle girl. The veil which had 
concealed its burning mysteries was torn away in an instant. 
The key to its. secret places was in her hands, and she was be- 
wildered with her own discoveries. Her cheeks alternated be- 
tween the pale and crimson of doubt and hope. Her lips quiv- 
ered convulsively, and an unbidden but not painful suffusion 
overspread the waim brilliance of her soft fair cheeks. She 
strove, ineffectually, to speak ; her words came forth in broken 
murmurs ; her voice had sunk into a sigh ; she was dumb. The 
youth once more took her hand into his, as, speaking with a 
suppressed tone, and with a measured slowness which had 
something in it of extreme melancholy, he broke silence ; — 

“And have I no answer, Edith — and must I believe that for 
either of us there should be other loves than those of childhood 
— that new affections may usurp the place of old ones — that 
tli^re may come a time, dear Edith, when I shall see an arm, 
aot my own, about your waist ; and the eyes that would look 
an no prospect if you were not a part of it, may be doomed to 
that fearfullest blight of beholding your lips smiling and pressed 
beneath the lips of another]” 

“ Never, oh never, Ralph ! Speak no more, I beseech you, 
in such language. You do me wrong in this — I have no such 


46 


GUY RIVERS. 


wish, 110 uch tlionglit or purpose. I dc not — I could not— 
think of another, Ralph. I will be yours, and yours only — if 
you really wish it.” 

“ If I wish ! Ah ! dear Edith, you are mine, and I am 
yours ! The world shall not pass between us.” 

She murmured — 

“ Yours, Ralph, yours only !” 

lie caught her in his passionate embrace, even as the words 
v/ere murmured from her lipk Her head settled upon his 
shoulder ; her light brown hair, loosened from the comb, fell 
over it in silky masses. Her eyes closed, his arms still encir- 
cled her, and the whole world was forgotten in a moment 
when the door opened, and a third party entered the room in 
the person of Colonel Colleton. 

He*. -3 w»e « catastrophe ! 


A RUPTURE — TUE COURSE UP TRUE LOVE. 


i: 


CHAPTER IV. 

A RUP'l .RE THE COURSE OF TRUE LOVE 

Colonel Colleton stood confounded at the spectacle before 
him. Filled with public affairs, or rather, with his own affairs 
in the public eye, he had grown totally heedless of ordinary 
events, household interests, and of the rapid growth and devel- 
opment of those passions in youth "which ripen quite as fervent- 
ly and soon in the shade as in the sun. These children — how 
should they have grown to such a stature ! Ilis daughter, at 
this moment, seemed taller than he had ever seen her before ! 
and Ralph ! — as the iincle’s eyes were riveted upon the youth, 
he certainly grew more than ever erect and imposing of look 
and stature. The first glance which he gave to the scene, did 
not please the young man. There was something about the ex- 
pression of the uncle’s face, which seemed to the nephew to he 
as supercilious, as it certaiidy was angiy. Proud, jealous of 
his sensibilities, the soul of the youth rose in arms, at the look 
which annoyed him. That Edith’s father should ever disap- 
prove of his passion for his cousin, never once entered the young 
man’s brain. He had not, indeed, once thought upon the mat- 
ter. He held it to be a thing of course that the father would 
welcome a union which promised to strengthen the family bond, 
and maintain the family name and blood in perpetuity. When, 
therefore, he beheld, in his uncle’s face, such an expression of 
scorn mixed with indignation, he resented it with the fervor of 
his whole soul. He was bewildered, it is true, but he was also 
chafed, and it needed that he should turn his eyes to the sweet 
cause of his offence, before he could find himself relieved of the 
painful feelings which her father’s look and manner had occa 
sioned him. 

Poor Edith had a keener sense of the nature of the case 


^UY RITI'^RS. 


AS 

Her instincts more readily supplied the means of knowledge. 
Besides, there were certain family matters, which the look of 
her father suddenly recalled — which had never been suffered 
to reach the ears of her cousin; — which indicated to her, how- 
ever imperfectly, the possible cause of that severe and scornful 
expression of eye, in the uncle, which had so confounded the 
nephew. She looked, with timid pleading to her father’s face, 
but dared not speak. 

And still the latter stood at the entrance, silent, sternly scan- 
ning the young offenders, just beginning to be conscious of 
offence. A surprise of any kind is exceedingly paralyzing to 
young lovers, caught in a situation like that in which our luck- 
less couple were found on this occasion. It is probable, that, 
but for this, Ralph Colleton would scarcely have borne so 
meekly the severe look which the father now bestowed upon 
his daughter. 

Though not the person to trouble himself muck at any time 
in relation to his child. Colonel Colleton had never once treated 
her unkindly. Though sometimes neglectful, he had never 
shown himself stern. The look which he now gave her was 
new to all her experience. The poor girl began to conceive 
much more seriously of her offence than ever ; — it seemed to 
spread out unimaginably far, and to involve a thousand viola- 
tions of divine and human law. She could only look pleadingly, 
without speech, to her father. His finger silently pointed her 
to withdraw. 

“ Oh, father !” — the exclamation was barely murmured. 

“ Go !” was the sole answer, with the iCngcr otill uplift. 

In silence, she glided away ; not, how-^v without stealing 
a fond and assuring glance at her lover. 

Her departure was the signal for that issue between the twc 
remaining parties for which each was preparing in his own 
fashion. Ralph had not beheld the dumb show, in which Edith 
was dismissed, without a rising impulse of choler. The manner 
of the thing had been particularly offensive to him. But the 
father of Edith, whatever his offence, had suddenly risen into 
new consideration in the young man’s mind, from the moment 
that he fully comprehended his feelings for the daughter. He 
was accordingly, somewhat disposed to temporize, though there 


A RUJ’'rLKE--THE COURSE OF TJiUlO LOVE. 


49 


was still a lurking dcsiie iu liis ininJ, to demand an explanation 
of those supercilious glances which had so offended him. 

But the. meditations of neither party consumed one twentietli 
part of the time that we have taken in hinting what they were. 
With the departure of Edith, and the closing of the door after 
her, Colonel Colleton, with all his storms, approached to the 
attack. The expression of scorn upon his face had given way 
to one of anger wholly. Ilis glance seemed meant to penetrate 
the bosom of the youth with a mortal stab — it was hate, rather 
.ban .inger, that he looked. Yet it was evident that he made 
an effort to subdue his wrath — its full utterance at least — but 
lie could not chase the terrible cloud from his haughty brow. 

The youth, getting chafed beneath his gaze, returned him 
look for look, and his brows grew dark and lowering also ; and, 
for anger, they gave back defiance. This silent, but expressive 
dialogue, was the work of a single moment of time. The uncle 
broke the silence. 

“ What am 1 to understand from this, young man ?” 

“ Young man, sir ! — I feel it very difficult to understand you, 
uncle ! In respect to Edith and myself, sir, I have but to say 
tliat we have discovered that we are something more than cous- 
ins to each other ! ” 

“ Indeed ! And how long is it, I pray, since you have made 
til is discovery ? ” 

This was said with a dry tone, and hard, contemptuous man- 
ner. The youth strove honestly to keep down his blood, 

‘‘ Within the hour, sir! Not that we have not always felt 
that we loved each other, uncle; only, that, up to this time, we 
had never been conscious of the true nature of our feelings.” 

The youth replied with the most provoking simplicity. The 
uncle was annoyed. He would rather that E-alph should have 
relieved him, by a conjecture of his own, from the necessity of 
liinting to him that such extreme sympathies, between the i)ar- . 
ties, were by no means a matter of course. But the nciihew 
would not, or could not, see ;* and his surprise, at the uncle’s 
course, was perpetually looking for explanation. It became 
necessary to speak plainly. 

“y\iid with what reason, Bal})h Colletoti 3 do you suppose 
that 1 v;ill .^auction an alliance betvVddil you and mv daughter ? 

a 


50 


GUY RIVERS. 


Upon whatj I pray you, do you ground your pretensions to iA( 
hand of Edith Colleton ? ” 

Such was the haughty interrogation. Ralph was confounded. 

My pretensions, sir? — The hand of Edith ! — J)o I hear you 
right, uncle ? Do you really mean what you say ? ” 

“ My words are as I have said them. They are sufficiently 
explicit. You need not misuiidorstand them. What, I ask, 
are your pretensions to the hand of my daughter, and liow is it 
that you have so far forgotten yourself as thus to abuse my con- 
fidence, stealing into the aflTections of my child ? ” 

“ Uncle, I have abused no confidence, and will not submit to 
any charge that woidd dishonor me. What I have done has 
been done openly, before all eyes, and without resort to cun- 
ning or contrivance. I must do myself the justice to believe 
that you knew all this without the necessity of my speech, and 
even while your lips spoke the contrary.” 

“ You are bold, Ralph, and seem to have forgotten that you 
are yet but a mere boy. You forget your years and mine.” 

“ No, sir — pardon me when I so Si)eak — but it is you wlio 
have forgotten them. Was it well to speak as you have spo- - 
ken ? ” proudly replied the youth. 

‘‘ Ralph, you have forgotten much, or have yet to be tauglit 
many tilings. You may not have violated confidence, but — ” 

“ I have not violated confidence ! ” was the abi-upt and some- 
wliat impetuous response, and will not have it spoken of in 
that manner. It is not true that I have abused any trust, and 
tlie assertion which I make shall not therefore be understood as 
a mere possibility.” 

Tlie uncle was something astounded by the almost fieice 
manner of his nephew; but the only other effect of this expres- 
sion was simply, while it diminished his own testiness of man- 
jiei- in his speeches, to add something to the severity of their 
character. He knew the indomitable spirit of the youth, and 
his pride was enlisted in the desire for its overthrow. 

You are yet to learn, Ralph Colleton, I perceive, the dif- 
ference and distance between yourself and my daughter. You 
are but a youth; yet — quite too young to think of such ties as 
I horse of iiiid to iilake any lasting engagement of that 

niitu'/Ol Uit, eveii Wer^ tills not the case^ 1 am entirely ignorant 


A liUrTUKE — THE COLESE OF TRUE LOVE. 


51 


of those pretensions which should prompt your claim to 
liand of Edith.” 

Had Colonel Colleton been a prudent and reflective man — 
had he, indeed, known much, if anything, of human nature — 
he would haA'e withheld the latter part of this sentence. He 
must have seen that its effect would only be to irritate a spirit 
needing an emollient. The re2)ly Avas instantaneous. 

“ ]My ])retensions. Colonel Colleton ? You have tvdee uttered 
that word in my ears, and with reference to this subject. Let 
me understand you. If you would teach me by this sentence 
the immeasurable individual su2)eriority of Edith over myself 
in all things, whether of mind, or heart, or person, the lesson is 
gratuitous. I need no teacher to this end. I acknowledge its 
truth, and none on this point can more perfectly agree with 
you than myself. But if, looking beyond these particulais, you 
would have me recognize in myself an inferiority, marked and 
singular, in a fair comparison with other men — if, in short, you 
would convey an indignity ; and — but you are my father’s 
brother, sir ! ” and the blood mounted to his forehead, and his 
lieart swelling, the youth turned proudly away, and rested his 
head upon the mantel. 

“ Not so, llalph ; you are hasty in your thought, not less than 
in its expression,” said his uncle, soothingly. “ I meant not 
what you think. But you must be aware, nephew, that my 
daughter, not less from the fortune Avhich will be exclusively 
hers, and lier individual accomplishments, than from the leading 
political station which her father fills, will be enabled to have a 
choice in the adoption of a suitor, which this childish passion 
might defeat.” 

Mine is no childish passion, sir; though young, my mind is 
not apt to vary in its tendencies ; and, unlike that of the mere 
politician, has little of inconsistency in its predilections with 
which to rebuke itself. But, I understand you. You have spo- 
k(m of her fortune, and that reminds me that T had a father, 
not less wortliy, 1 am sure — not less generous, T feci — but cer- 
tainly far less prudent than hers. I understand yon, sir, ])er- 
fectly.” 

‘‘ ff you nieai), Kal}>Ii, by this sarcasm, that my consid* in- 
tions aic those of wealtli, you mistake me inuch. The uum 


b2 


GUY RIVERS. 


who seeks my daughter must not look for a sacrifice ; she must 
win a husband who has a name, a high place — who has a stand- 
ing in society. Your tutors, indeed, speak of you in fair terms; 
but the public voice is everything in our country. When you 
have got through your law studies, and made your first speech, 
we will talk once more upon this subject.” 

“ And when I have obtained admission to the practice of 
the law, do you say that Edith shall be mine 

Nay, Ralph, you again mistake me. I only say, it will be 
then time enough to consider the matter.” 

“ Uncle, this will not do for me. Either you sanction, or you 
do not. Y on mean something by that word pretensions which I am 
yet to understand ; my name is Colleton, like your own, and — ” 

There was a stern resolve in the countenance of the colonel, 
which spoke of something of the same temper Avith his impetu- 
ous nephew, and the cool and haughty sentence which fell from 
his lips in reply, while arresting that of the youth, was galling 
to the proud spirit of the latter, whom it chafed nearly into 
madness. 

“Why, true, Ralph, such is your name indeed; and your 
reference to this subject now, only reminds me of the too free 
use which my brother made of it when he bestowed it upon a 
woman so far beneath him and his family in all possible respects.” 

“ There again, sir, there again ! It is my mother’s poverty 
that pains you. She brought my father no dowry. He had 
nothing of that choice pnidence which seems to. have been the 
guide of others of our family in the bestowment of their affec- 
tions. He did not calculate the value of his wife’s income be- 
fore he suffered himself to become enamored of her. I see it, 
sir — I am not ignorant.” 

“ If I speak with you calmly, Ralph, it is because you are 
the indweller of my house, and because I have a pledge to my 
brother in your behalf.” 

“ Speak freely, sir ; let not this scruple trouble you any 
longer. It shall not trouble me ; and I shall be careful to take 
early occasion to release you most effectually from all such 
pledges.” 

Colonel Colleton proceeded as if the last speech had not been 
uttered 


A RUPTURE — THE COURSE OE TRUE LOVE. 53 

“ Editli has a claim iu society whicli shall net he sacrificed. 
Her father, Ralph, did not descend to the hovel of the misera- 
ble peasant, choosing a wife from the inferior grade, who, with- 
out education, and ignorant of all refinement, could only appear 
a blot upon the station to which she had been raised. Her 
mother, sir, was not a woman obscure and uneducated, for whom 
no parents could be found.” 

“ What means all this, sir ? Speak, relieve me at once, Col 
onel Colleton. What know you of rny mother ?” 

“ Nothing — but quite as much as your father ever knew. It 
is sufficient tjiat he found her in a hovel, without a name, and 
with the silly romance of his character through life, he raised 
her to a position in society which she could not fill to his honor, 
and which, finally, working upon his pride and sensibility drove 
him into those extravagances which in the end produced his 
ruin. I grant that she loved him with a most perfect devotion, 
which he too warmly returned, but what of that? — she was 
still his destroyer.” 

Thus sternly did the colonel unveil to the eyes of Ralph 
Colleton a portion of the family picture which he had never 
been permitted to survey before. 

Cold drops stood on the brow of the now nerveless and un-. 
happy youth. He was pale, and his eyes were fixed for an 
instant; but, suddenly recovering himself, he rushed hastily 
from the apartment before his uncle could interpose to prevent 
him. He heard not or heeded not the words of entreaty which 
called him back ; but, proceeding at once to his chamber, he 
carefully fastened the entrance, and, throwing himself upon his 
couch, found relief from the deep mental agony thus suddenly 
forced upon him, in a flood of tears. 

For the first time in his life, deriving his feeling in this par- 
ticular rather from the opinions of society than from any indi- 
vidual consciousness of debasement, he felt a sentiment of hu- 
miliation working in his breast. His mother he had little 
known, but his father’s precepts and familiar conversation had 
impressed upon him, from his childhood, a feeling for her of 
the deepest and most unqualified regard. This feeling was not 
lessened, though rebuked, by the development so unnecessarily 
and so wantonly conveyed. It taught a new feeling of distrust 


sry RIVERS. 


/i4 

for hi3 uncle, whose hf>rsh manner and ungenerous insinuations, 
ill the progress of the preceding half-hour, had lost him not a 
little of the youth’s esteem. He felt that the motive of his in- 
former was not less unkind than was the information painful 
and oppressive i and his mind, now more than ever excited and 
active from this thought, went on discussing, from point to point, 
all existing relations, until a stern resolve to leave, that very 
night, the dwelling of one whose hospitality had been made a 
inattei of special reference, was the only and settled conclusion 
to which his pride could possibly come. 

The servant reminded him of the supper-hour, but the sum- 
mons was utterly disregarded. The colonel himself conde- 
scended to notify the stubborn youth of the same important 
fact, but with almost as little effect. Without opening his door, 
he signified his indisposition to join in the usual repast, and 
thus closed the conference. 

“ I meet him at the table no more — not at his table, at least,” 
was the muttered speech of Halph, as he heard the receding 
footsteps of his uncle. 

lie had determined, though without any distinct object in 
view, upon leaving the house and returning to Tennessee, Avhere 
he bad hitherto resided. His excited spirits would suffer no 
delay, and that very night was the period chosen for his de- 
parture. Few preparations were necessary. With a fine horse 
3f his own, the gift of his father, he knew that the course lay 
open. The long route he had more than once travelled before ; 
a. d he had no fears, though he well knew.the desolate charac- 
ter of the journey, in pursuing it alone. Apart from this, he 
loved adventure for its own sake. The first lesson which his 
father had taught him, even in boyhood, was that braving of 
trial which alone can bring about the most perfect manliness. 
With a stout heart, and with limbs not less so, the difficulties 
before him had no thought in his mind ; there was buoyancy 
enough in the excitement of his spirit, at that moment, to give 
even a pleasurable aspect to the obstacles that rose before him. 

At an early hour he commenced the work of preparation : he 
had little trouble in this respect. He studiously selected from 
his wardrobe such portions of it as had been the gift of hia 
uncle, all of which he carefully excluded from among the con- 


A RUPTURE -r- THE COURSE OP TRUE LOVE. 


55 


tents of the little portmanteau which readily comprised the res- 
idue. Ilis travelling-dress was quickly adjusted ; and not omit- 
ting a fine pair of pistols and a dirk, which, at that period, were 
held in the south and southwest legitimate companions, he found 
few other cares for arrangement. One token alone of Edith — 
a small miniature linked with his own, taken a few seasons be- 
fore, when both were children, by a strolling artist — suspended 
by a chain of the richest gold, was carefully hung about his 
neck. It grew in value, to his mind, at a moment when he was 
about to separate, perhaps for ever, from its sweet original. 

At midnight, when all was silent — his portmanteau under 
his arm — booted, spurred, and ready for travel — Ralph de- 
scended to the lower story, in which slept the chief servant of 
the house. Caesar was a favorite with the youth, and ho had 
no difficulty in making himself understood. The worthy black 
was thunderstruck Avith his determination. 

“ Ky ! ^lass Ralph, hoAV you talk ! what for you go dis time 
o’night 1 What for you go ’t all 

The youth satisfied him, in a manner as evasive and brief as 
possible, and urged him in the preparation of his steed for the 
journey. But the worthy negro absolutely refused to sanction 
the proceeding unless he Avere permitted to go along Avith him. 
He used not a few strong arguments for this purpose. 

“ And what we all for do here, Avhen you leflT? ’speck ebbery 
ting be dull, wuss nor ditch-Avater. No more fun — no more 
shuffie-foot. Old maussa no like de fiddle, and nebber hab 
party and jollication like udder people. Don’t tink I can 
stay here, Mass Ra’ph, after you gone; ’spose, you no ’jection, 
I go ’long wid you ? You leff me, I take to de swamp, sure 
as a gun.” 

“ No, Caesar, you are not mine ; you belong to your young 
mistress. You must stay an*d wait upon her.” 

“Ha!” was the quick response of the black, Avith a signifi- 
cant smirk upon his lip, and with a cunning emphasis ; “ enty 
I see ; wha’ for I hab eye ef I no see wid em ? I ’speck young 
misses hab no ’jection for go too — eh. Mass Ra’ph! all you 
hab for do is for ax em !” 

The eye of the youth danced with a playful light, as if a new 
thought, and not a disagreeable one, had suddenly broken in 


56 


GUY RIVERS. 


upon liis brain ; but tbe expression lasted but for an instant 
He overruled all tbe hopes and wishes of the sturdy black, who, 
at length, with a manner the most desponding, proceeded to 
the perfoi-mance of the required duty. A few moments sufficed, 
and Avith a single look to the window of his mistress, which 
spoke unseen volumes of love, leaving an explanatory letter for 
the perusal of father and daughter, though addressed only to 
the latter — he gave the rough hand of his sable friend a cor- 
dial pressure, and was soon hidden from sight by the thickly- 
spreading foliage of the long avenue. The reader has been al- 
ready apprized that the youth, whose escape in a preceding 
chapter we have already naiTated, and Ralph Colleton, are one 
and the same person. 

He had set forth, as we have seen, under the excitation of 
feelings strictly natural ; but which, subtracting from the 
strong common sense belonging to his character, had led him 
prematurely into an adventure, having no distinct purposes, 
and promising largely of difficulty. What were his thoughts 
of the future, what his designs, we are not prepared to say. 
His character was of a firm and independent kind ; and the 
probability is, that, looking to the profession of the law, in the 
study of Avliich noble science his mind had been for some time 
occupied, he had contemplated its future practice in those por- 
tions of Tennessee in which his father had been known, and 
Avhere he himself had passed some very pleasant years of his 
own life. With economy, a moderate talent, and habits of in- 
dustry, he was well aware that, in those regions, the means of 
life are with little difficulty attainable by those who are worthy 
and will adventure. Let us now return to the wayfarer, whom 
we have left in that wildest region of the then little-settled state 
of Georgia — doubly wild as fanning the debatable land between 
the savage and the civilized — partaking of the ferocity of the 
one and the skill, cunning, and cupidity of the other. 


MARK FORRESTER — THE GOLD VILLAGE. 


57 


OHAPTEK V. 

MARK FORRESTER — THE GOLD VILLAGE. 

There were moments when Ralph Colleton, as lie lay bruised 
and wounded upon the sward, in those wild woods, and beneath 
the cool canopy of heaven, was conscious of his situation, of its 
exposure and its perils — moments, when he strove to recover 
himself — to shake off the stupor which seemed to fetter his 
limbs as effectually as it paralyzed his thoughts; — and the re- 
newed exercis^of his mental energies, brought about, and for a 
little while sustained, an increased consciousness, which perhaps 
rather added to his pain. It taught him his own weakness, 
when he strove vainly to support himseJ? against the tree to 
which he had crawled ; and in despair, the acuteness of which 
was only relieved by the friendly stupor which came to his aid, 
arising from the loss of blood, he closed his eyes, and muttering 
a brief sentence, which might have been a prayer, he resigned 
himself to his fate. 

But he was not thus destined to perish. He had not lain 
many minutes in this situation when the tones of a strong voice 
rang through the forest. There was a whoop and halloo, and 
then a catch of a song, and then a shrill whistle, all strangely 
mingled together, finally settling down into a rude strain, which, 
coming from stentorian lungs, found a ready echo in every jut- 
ting rock and space of wood for a mile round. The musician 
went on merrily from verse to verse of his forest minstrelsy as 
he continued to approach ; describing in his strain, with a ready 
ballad-facility, the numberless pleasures to be found in the life 
of the woodman. Uncouthly, and in a style partaking rathet 
more of the savage than the civilized taste and temper, it enu- 
merated the distinct features of each mode of life with much iu* 


58 


GUY RIVERS. 


genuity and, in stanzas smartly epigrammatic, did not hesitate 
to assign the ]>reference to the former. 

As the new- comer approached the spot where Ralph Colle- 
ton lay, there was still a partial though dim light over the forest. 
The twilight was richly clear, and there were some faint yellow 
lines of the sun’'s last glances lingering still on the remote hori- 
zon. The moon, too, in the opposite sky, about to come forth, 
had sent before her some few faint harbingers of her approach ; 
and it w^s not difficult for the sturdy woodman to discern the 
body of the traveller, lying, as it did, almost in his path. A 
few paces farther on stood his steed, cropping the young grass, 
and occasionally, with uplifted head, looking round with some- 
thing like human wonderment, for the assertion of that author- 
ity which heretofore had him in charge. At the approach of 
the stranger he did not start, but, seeming conscious of some 
change for the better in his own prospects, he fell again to work 
upon the herbage as if no interruption had occurred to his re- 
past. ^ 

The song of the woodman ceased as he discovered the body 
With an exclamation, he stooped down to examine it, and his 
hands were suffused with the blood which had found its way 
through the garments. He saw that life was not extinct, and 
readily supposing the stupor the consequence of loss of blood 
rather than of vital injury, he paused a few moments as in 
seeming meditation, then turning from the master to his unre- 
luctant steed, he threw himself upon his back, and was quickly 
out of sight. He soon returned, bringing with him a wagon 
and team, such as all farmers possess in that region, and lifting 
the inanimate form into the rude vehicle with a tender caution 
that indicated a true humanity, walking slowly beside the 
horses, and carefully avoiding all such obstructions in the road, 
as by disordering the motion would have given pain to the suf- 
ferer, he carried him safely, and after the delay of a few hours, 
into the frontier, and then almost unknown, village of Chestatee. 

It was well for the youth that he had fallen into such hands. 
There were few persons in that part of the world like Mark 
Forrester. A better heart, or more honorable spirit, lived not ; 
and in spite of an erring and neglected education — of evil as- 
lociations, and sometimes evil pursuits— *he WttS still a worthj 


MARK FORRESTER — THE GOLD VILLAGE. 59 

specimen of manhood. We may as well here describe him, as 
he appears to us ; for at this period the youth was still insensi- 
ble — unconscious of his deliverance as he was of his deliverer*. 

Mark Forrester was a stout, strongly-built, yet active person, 
some six feet in height, square and broad-shouldered — exhibit- 
ing an outline, wanting, perhaps, in some of the more rounded 
graces of form, yet at the same time far from symmetrical de- 
ficiency. There was, also, not a little of ease and agility, to- 
gether with a rude gracefulness in his action, the result equally 
of the well-combined organization of his animal man and of the 
hardy habits of his woodland life. His appearance was youth- 
ful, and the passing glance would perhaps have rated him at 
little more than six or seven-and-twenty. His broad, full chest, 
heaving strongly with a consciousness of might — together with 
the generally athletic muscularity of his whole person — indi- 
cated correctly the possession of prodigious strength. His face 
was finely southern. His features were frank and fearless — 
moderately intelligent, and well marked — the tout ensemble 
showing an active vitality, strong, and usually just feelings, 
and a good-natured freedom of character, which enlisted confi- 
dence, and seemed likely to acknowledge few restraints of a 
merely conventional kind. Nor, in any of these particulars, did 
the outward falsely interpret the inward man. With the pos- 
session of a giant’s powers, he was seldom so far borne forward 
by his impulses, whether of pride or of passion, as to permit of 
their wanton or improper use. His eye, too, had a not unpleas- 
ing twinkle, promising more of good-fellowship and a heart at 
ease than may ever consort with the jaundiced or distempered 
spirit. His garb indicated, in part, and was well adapted to. 
the pursuits of the hunter and the labors of the woodman. We 
couple these employments together, for, in the wildernesses of 
North America, the dense forests, and broad prairies, they are 
utterly inseparable. In a belt, made of buckskin, which encir- 
cled his middle, was stuck, in a sheath of the same material, a 
small axe, such as, among the Indians, was well known to the 
early settlers as a deadly implement of war. The head of this 
instrument, or that portion of it opposite the blade, and made in 
weight to correspond with and balance the latter when hurled 
from the hand, was a pick of solid steel, narrowing down to a 


60 


GUY RIVERS. 


point, and calculated, with a like blow, to prove even more 
fatal, as a weapon in conflict, than the more legitimate member 
to which it was appended. A thong of ox-hide, slung over his 
shoulder, supported easily a light rifle of the choicest bore ; for 
there are few matters indeed upon which the wayfarer in the 
southern wilds exercises a nicer and more discriminating taste 
than in the selection of a companion, in a pursuit like his, of 
the very last importance ; and which, in time, he learns to love 
with a passion almost comparable to his love of woman. The 
dress of the woodman was composed of a coarse gray stuff, of a 
make sufficiently outre^ but which, fitting him snugly, served to 
set off his robust and well-made person to the utmost advantage. 
A fox-skin cap, of domestic manufacture, the tail of which, 
studiously preserved, obviated any necessity for a foreign tas- 
sel, rested slightly upon his head, giving a unique finish to his 
appearance, which a fashionable hat would never have supplied. 
Such was the personage, who, so fortunately for Ralph, plied 
his craft in that lonely region ; and who, stumbling upon his in- 
sensible form at nightfall, as already narrated, carefully con- 
veyed him to his own lodgings at the village-inn of Chestatee. 

The village, or town — for such it was in the acceptation of 
the time and country — may well deserve some little descrip- 
tion; not for its intrinsic importance, but because it will be 
found to resemble some ten out of every dozen of the country 
towns in all the corresponding region. It consisted of thirty or 
forty dwellings, chiefly of logs ; not, however, so immediately 
in the vicinity of one another as to give any very decided air 
of regularity and order to their appearance. As usual, in all 
the interior settlements of the South and West, wherever an 
eligible situation presented itself, the squatter laid the founda- 
tion-logs of his dwelling, and proceeded to its erection. No 
public squares, and streets laid out by line and rule, marked 
conventional progress in an orderly and methodical society ; 
but, regarding individual convenience as the only object in ar- 
rangements of this nature, they took little note of any other, 
and to them less important matters. They built where the 
land rose into a ridge of moderate and gradual elevation 
commanding a long reach of prospect; where a good spring 
threw out its crystal waters, jetting, in winter and summer 


MARK FORRESTER — THE GOLD VILLAGE. 


ol 


alike, from the hillside or the rock ; or, in its absence, where a 
fair branch, trickling over a bed of small and yellow pebbles, 
kept up a perpetually clear and undiminishing current ; where 
the giTves were thick and umbrageous ; and lastly, hut not less 
important than either, where agues and fevers came not, bring- 
ing clouds over the w^arm sunshine, and taking all the hue, and 
beauty, and odor from the flower. These considerations were 
at all times the most important to the settler when the place of 
his abode was to be determined upon; and, with these advan- 
tages at large, the company of squatters, of whom Mark For- 
rester, made one, by no means the least important among them, 
had regularly, for the purposes of gold-digging, colonized the 
little precinct into which we have now ventured to penetrate. 
Before we advance farther in our narrative, it may be quite 
as well to say, that the adventurers of which this wild congre 
gation was made up were impelled to their present common 
centre by motives and influences as various as the differing fea- 
tures of their several countenances. They came, not onh” from 
all parts ofi;he surrounding^country, but many of them from all 
parts of the surrounding world ; oddly and confusedly jumbled 
together; the very oTia-jwdrida of moral and mental combina- 
tion. They were chiefly those to whom the ordinary operations 
of human trade or labor had proved tedious or unproductive — 
with whom the toils, aims, and impulses of society were de- 
ficient of interest ; or, upon whom, an inordinate desire of a 
sudden to acquire wealth had exercised a sufficiently active in- 
fluence to impel to the novel employment of gold-finding — or 
rather ^o\d.-seelcing, for it was not always that the search Avas 
successful — the very name of such a pursuit carrying with it to 
many no small degree of cham and persuasion. To these, a 
Avholesome assortment of other descriptions may be added, of 
character and caste such as will be found ordinarily to compose 
everywhere the frontier and outskirts of civilization, as rejected 
by the wholesome current, and driven, like the refuse and the 
scum of the waters, in confused stagnation to their banks and 
margin. Here, alike, came the spendthrift and the indolent, 
the dreamer and the outlaw, congregating, though guided by 
contradictory impulses, in the formation of a common caste, and 
in the pursuit of a like objeef — some with the view to profit and 


62 


GUY RIVERS. 


gain ; others, simply from no alternative being left them: and that 
of gold-seeking, with a better sense than their neighbors, being 
111 their own contemplation, truly, a dernier resort. 

The reader can better conceive than we describe, the sorts of 
people, passions, and pursuits, herding thus confusedly together; 
and with these various objects. Others, indeed, came into the 
society, like the rude but honest woodman to whom we liave al- 
ready afforded an introduction, almost purely from a spirit of 
adventure, that, growing impatient of the confined boundaries 
of its birthplace, longs to tread new regions and enjoy new 
pleasures and employments. A spirit, we may add, the same, 
or not materially differing I'r jm that, which, at an earlier period* 
of human history, though in a condition of society not dissimi- 
lar, begot the practices denominated, by a most licentious cour- 
Icsy, those of chivalry. 

8 But, of whatever stuff the morale of this people may have 

jbeen made up, it is not less certain than natural. that the mix- 

1 ture was still incoherent — the parts had not yet grown to- 
gether. Though ostensibly in the pursuit of the same interest 
and craft, they had anything but a like fortune, and the degree 
of concert and harmony which subsisted between them v^as but 
shadowy and partial. A mass so heterogeneous in its origin 
and tendency might not so readily amalgamate. Strife, discon- 
tent, and contention, were not unfrequent ; and the laborers at 
the same instrument, mutually depending on each other, not un- 
commonly came to blows over it. The successes of any one in 
dividual — for, as yet, their labors were unregulated by arrange- 
ment, and each worked on his own score — procured for him the 
hate and envy of some of the company, while it aroused the ill- 
disguised dissatisfaction of all ; and nothing was of more com- 
mon occurrence, than, when striking upon a fruitful and 
productive section, even among those interested in the dis- 
covery, to find it a disputed dominion. Copartners no longer, 
a division of the spoils, when accumulated, was usually 
terminated by a resort to blows ; and the bold spirit and the 
strong hand, in this way, not uncommonly acquired the share 
for which the proprietor was too indolent to toil in the manner 
of his companions. 

Tin issue of these conflicts, as may be imagined, was some* 


jilARK FOERESTER — THE GOLD VILLAGE. 


63 


^Imes woimcls and bloodshed, and occasionally death : the field, 
we need scarcely add — since this is the history of all usurpa- 
tion — remaining, in every such case, in possession of the party 
proving itself most courageous or strong. Nor need this history 
surprise — it is history, veracious and sober history of a period, 
still within recolle/'tion, and of events of almost recent occur- 
rence. The wild condition of the country — the absence of all 
civil authority, and almost of laws, certainly of officers suffi- 
cieiHJy daring to undertake their honest administration, and 
shrinking from the risk of incurring, in the performance of their 
duties, the vengeance of those, who, though disagreeing among 
themselves, at all times made common cause against the minis- 
ters of justice as against a common enemy — may readily ac- 
count for the frequency and impunity with which these desper- 
ate men committed crime and defied its consequences. 

But we are now fairly in the centre of the village— a fact of 
which, in the case of most southern and western villages, it is 
necessary in so many words to apprize the traveller. In those 
parts, the scale by which towns are laid out is always magnifi- 
cent. The founders seem to have calculated usually upon a 
population of millions; and upon spots and sportinggrouuds, 
measurable by the Olympic coursers, and the ancient fields of 
combat, when scythes and elephants and chariots made the 
warriors, and the confused cries of a yelping multitude com- 
posed the conflict itself. ^J'here was no want of room, no risk 
of narroAV streets and pa oments, no deficiency of area in the 
formation of public squaies. The houses scattered around die 
traveller, dotting at long and unfrequent intervals the ragged 
wood which enveloped them, left few stirring apprehensions of 
their firing one another. The forest, where the land was not 
actually built upon, stood up in its primitive simplicity undis- 
honored by the axe. 

Such was the condition of the settlement at the period when 
our hero so unconsciously entered it. It was night, and the 
lamps of the village were all in full blaze, illuminating with an 
effect the most picturesque and attractive the fifty paces imme- 
diately encircling them. Each dwelling boasted of this auxiliai 
and attraction ; and in this particular but few cities afford so 
abundantly the materials for a blaze as our country villages 


GUY RIVERS. 


n4 

Three or four slight posts are erected at convenient distances 
from each other in front of the building — a broad scaffold, 
sufficiently large for the purpose, is placed upon them, on which 
a thick coat of clay is plastered; at evening, a pile is built 
upon this, of dry timber and the rich pine which overruns and 
mainly marks the forests of the south. Th<*,se ^iles, in a blaze, 
serve the nightly strollers of the settlement as guides and bea 
cons, and with their aid Forrester safely wound his way into 
the little village of Chestatee. 

Forming a square in the very centre of the town, a cluster 
of four huge fabrics, in some sort sustained the pretensions of 
the settlement to this epithet. This ostentatious collection, 
some of the members of which appeared placed there rather for 
show than service, consisted of the courthouse, the jail, the 
tavern, and the shop of the blacksmith — the two last-mentioned 
being at all times the very first in course of erection, and the 
essential nucleus in the formation of the southern and western 
settlement. The courthouse and the jail, standing directly 
opposite each other, carried in their faces a family outline of 
sympathetic and sober gravity. There had been some effect at 
|)i(;tciision in their construction, both being cumbrously large, 
awkward, and unwieldy ; and occupying, as they did, the only 
portion of the village which had been stripped of its forest 
covering, bore an aspect of mutual and ludicrous wildness and 
vacancy. They had both been built upon a like plan and equal 
scale ; and the only difference existing betw(‘,en them, but one that 
was immediately perceptible to the eye, was the superfluous 
abundance of windows in the former, and their deficiency in 
the latter. A moral agency had most probably prompted the 
architect to the distinction here hit upon — and he felt, doubt- 
less, in admitting free access to the light in the house of justice, 
and in excluding it almost entirely from that of punishment, 
that he had recognised the proprieties of a most excellent taste 
and true judgment. These apertures, clumsily wrought in the 
logs of which the buildings were made, added still more to their 
generally uncouth appearance. There Avas yet, however, 
another marked difference between the courthouse and jail, 
which we sh uld not omit to notice. The former had the 
advantage o its neighbor, in being surmounted by a small 


Mark Forrester — the gold village. 65 

tower or cupola, in which a hell of moderate size hung sus- 
pended, permitted to speak only on such important occasions 
as the opening of court, sabbath service, and the respective 
anniversaries of the birthday of Washington and the Declara- 
tion of Independence. This building, thus distinguished above 
its fellows, served also all the purposes of a place of worship, 
whenever some wandering preacher found his wmy into the 
settlement ; an occurrence, at the time we write, of very occa- 
sional character. To each of the four vast Avails of the jail, in 
a taste certainly not bad, if w^e consider the design and charac- 
ter of the fabric, but a single window AA^as allotted — that too of 
the very smallest description for human uses, and crossed at 
right angles with rude and slender bars of iron, the choicest 
specimens of Avorkmanship from the neighboring smithy. The 
distance betAveen each of these four equally important buildings 
Avas by no means inconsiderable, if we are required to make 
the scale for our estimate, that of the cramped and diminished 
limits accorded to like places in the cities, A\diere men and 
women appear to increase in due proportion as the field lessens 
upon which they must encounter in the great struggle for exist- 
ence. Though neighbors in every substantial respect, the four 
fabrics were most uncharitably remote, and stood froAvning 
gloomily at one another — scarcely relieved of the cheerless 
and sombre character of their rough outsides, even Avhen thus 
brightly illuminated by the glare throAvn uj)on them by the 
several blazes, flashing out upon the scene from the twin lamps 
in front of the tavern, through whose wide and unsashed win- 
doAvs an additional lustre, as of many lights, gave Avarm indica- 
tions of life and good lodgings within. At a point equidistant 
from, and forming one of the angles of the same square Avith 
each of these, the broader glare from the smith’s furnace 
streamed in bright lines across the plain betAveen, pouring 
through the unclayed logs of the hovel, in which, at his craft, 
the industrious proprietor was even then busily employed. Oc- 
casionally, the sharp click of his hammer, ringing upon and 
resounding from the anvil, and a full blast from the capacious 
belloAvs, indicated the busy animation, if not the sweet concert, 
the habitual cheerfulness and charm, of a more civilized and 
better regulate i society. 


66 


GUY RlVURb. 


Nor was tlie smitn, at tlie moment of oiir entrance, the only 
noisy member of the little village. The more pretending 
establishment to which we are rapidly approaching, threw out 
its clamors, and the din of many voices gathered upon the 
breeze in wild and incoherent confusion. Deep hursts of laugh- 
ter, and the broken stanza of an occasional catch roared out at 
intervals, promised sometliing of relief to the dull mood ; while, 
as the sounds grew more distinct, the quick ear of Forrester was 
enabled to distinguish the voices of the several revellers. 

“ There they are, in full blast,” he muttered, “ over a gallon 
of whiskey, and gulping it down as if ’twas nothing better than 
common water. But, what’s the great fuss to-night ? There’s a 
crowd, I reckon, and they’re a running their rigs on somebody.” 

Even Forrester was at a loss to account for their excess of 
hilarity to-night. Though fond of drink, and meeting often in 
a crowd, they were few of them of a class — using his own 
phrase — “to give so much tongue over their liquors.” The 
old toper and vagabond is usually a silent drinker. His amuse- 
ments, when in a circle, and with a bottle before him, are found 
in cards and dice. His cares, at such a period, are too consid- 
erate to suffer him to be noisy. Here, in Chestatge, Forrester 
well knew that a crowd implied little good-fellowship. The 
ties which brought the gold-seekers and squatters together were 
not of a sort to produce cheerfulness and merriment. Their 
very sports were savage, and implied a sort of fun which com- 
monly gave pain to somebody. He wondered, accordingly, 
as he listened to yells of laughter, and discordant shouts of 
hilarity ; and he grew curious about the occasion of uproar. 

“ They’re poking fun at some poor devil, that don’t quite see 
what they’re after.” 

A nearer approach soon gave him a clue to the mystery ; hut 
all his farther speculations upon it were arrested, by a deep 
groan from the wounded man, and a writhing movement in the 
bottom of the wagon, as the wheel rolled over a little pile of 
stones in the road. 

Forrester’s humanity checked his curiosity. He stooped to 
the sufferer, composed his limbs upon the straw, and, as the 
vehicle, by this time, had approached the tavern, he ordered the 
wagoner to drive to the rear of the building, that the wounded 


MiRiv J'ORRESl’BR — THE GOLD VILLAGE. 6? 

man might lose, as much as possible, the sounds of clamor which 
steadily rose from the hall in front. When the wagon stopped, 
he procured proper help, and, with the tenderest care, assisted to 
bear our unconscious traveller from the vehicle, into the upper 
story of the house, where he gave him his own bed, left him in 
charge of an old negro, and hurried away in search of that 
most important person of the place, the village-doctor. 


OUT RIVEOS 




CHAPTER VI. 

CODE AND PRACTICE OF THE REGULATORS. 

Forrester was fleet of foot, and tlie village-doctor not f&i 
distant. He was soon procured,, and, prompt of practice, the 
hurts of Ralph Colleton were found to be easily medicable. 
The wound was slight, the graze of a bullet only, cutting some 
smaller blood-vessels, and it was only from the loss of blood 
that insensibility had followed. The moderate skill of our 
country-surgeon was quite equal to the case, and soon enabled 
him to put the mind of Mark Forrester, who was honestly an ^ 
humanely anxious, at perfect rest on the subject of his unknown 
charge. With the dressing of his wound, and the application 
of restoratives, the consciousness of the youth returned, and he 
was enabled to learn how he had been discovered, where he 
was, and to whom he was indebted for succor in the moment of 
his insensibility. 

Ralph Colleton, of course, declared his gratitude in warm 
and proper terms; but, as enjoined by the physician, he was dis- 
couraged from all unnecessary speech. But he was not denied 
to listen, and Forrester was communicative, as became his 
frank face and honest impulses. The brief questions of Ralph 
obtained copious answers; and, for an hour, the woodman 
cheered the solitude of his chamber, by the narration of such 
matters as were most likely to interest his hearer, in respect to 
the new region where he was, perforce, kept a prisoner. Of 
Chestatee, and the people thereof, their employment, and tlie 
resources of the neighborhood, Forrester gave a pretty correct 
account ; though he remained prudently silent in regard to the 
probable parties to that adventure in which hh hearer had re 
ceived his hurt. 


CODE AND PRACTICE OF THE REGULATORS. 69 

From speaking of these subjects, the transition was natural 
to the cause of uproar going on below stairs. The sounds of 
the hubbub penetrated the chamber of the wounded man, and 
he expressed some curiosity in respect to it. This was enough 
for the woodman, who had partially informed himself, by a free 
conversation with the wagoner who drove the vehicle which 
brought 'Ralph to the tavern. lie had caught up other details 
as he hurried to and fro, when he ran for the doctor. He was 
thus prepared to satisfy the youth’s inquiry. 

“Well, squire, did you ever see a live Yankee?” 

The youth smiled, answering affirmatively. 

“ He’s a pedler, you know, and that means a chap what can 
wheedle the eyes out of your head, the soul out of your body, 
the gould out of your pocket, and give you nothing but brass, 
and tin, and copper, in the place of ’em. Well, all the hubbub 
you hear is jest now about one of these same Yankee pedlers. 
Theregilators have caught the varmint-— one Jared Bunce, as 
he calls himself — and a more cunning, rascally, presumptions 
critter do n’t come out of all Connecticut. He ’s been a cheating 
and swindling'all the old women round the country. He’ll pay 
for it now, and no mistake. The regilators caught him about 
three hours ago, and they’ve brought him here for judgment 
and trial. They’ve got a jury setting on his vartues, and 
they’ll hammer the soul out of him afore they let him git out 
from under the iron. I don’t reckon they kin cure him, for 
what’s bred in the bone, you know, won’t come out of the flesh ; 
but they ’ll so bedevil bone and flesh, that I reckon he ’ll be the 
last Yankee that ever comes to practice again in this Chestatep 
country. Maybe, he ain’t deserving of much worse than they 
kin do. Maybe, he ain’t a scamp of the biggest wethers. His 
rascality ain’t to be measured. Why, he kin walk through a 
man’s pockets, jest as the devil goes through a crack or a key- 
hole, and the money will naterally stick to him, jest as ef he 
was made of gum turpentine. His very face is a sort of kining 
[coining] machine. His look says dollars and cents; and its 
always your dollars and cents, and he kines them out of your 
hands into his’n, jest with a roll of his eye, and a mighty leetle 
turn of his finger. He cheats in everything, and cheats every- 
body. Thar ’s not an old woman in the country that do n’t say 


70 


GUY RIVERS. 


her prayers back’tirds when she thinks of Jared Bunce. Phar a 
his tin-wares and his wood- wares — his coffeepots and kettles, 
all put together with saft sodder — that jest go to pieces, as ef 
they had nothing else to do. And he kin blarney you so — and 
he’s so quick at a mortal lie — and he’s got jest a good reason 
for everything — and he’s so sharp at a ’sense [excuse] that it’s 
onpossible to say Avhere he’s gAvine to have you, and what 
you’re a gAvine to lose, and how you’ll get off at last, and in 
what way he’ll cheat you another time. He’s been at this 
business, in these diggings, now about three years. Theregila- 
tors have swore a hundred times to square off with him ; but 
he’s always got off tell now; sometimes by new inventions — 
sometimes by biblG oaths — and last year, by regilarly cutthg 
dirt [flight]. He’s hardly a chance to git cl’ar now, for thereg- 
ilators are pretty much up to all his tricks, and he’s mighty 
nigh to ride a rail for a colt, and get new scores ag’in old scores, 
laid on with the smartest hickories in natur’.” 

“And who are the regulators'?” asked the youth, languidly. 

“ What ! you from Georgy, and never to hear tell of the reg- 
ilators ? Why, that’s the very place, I reckon, where the breed 
begun. The regilators are jest then, you see, our OAvn people. 
We hain’t got much laAV and justice in these pairts, and when 
the rascals git too sassy and plentiful, we all turn out, few or 
many, and make a business of cleaning out the stables. We 
turn justices, and sheriffs, and lawyers, and settle scores with 
the growing sinners. We jine, hand in hand, agin such a chap 
as J ared Bunce, and set in judgment upon his evil-doings. It’s 
a regilar court, though we make it up ourselves, and app’ints 
our own judges and juries, and pass judgment ’cordin’ to the 
case. Ef it’s the first offence, or only a small one, we let’s the 
fellow off with only a taste of the hickory. Ef it’s a tough case, 
and an old sinner, we give him a belly -full. Ef the whole coun- 
try’s roused, then Judge Lynch puts on his black cap, and the 
rascal takes a hard ride on a rail, a duck in the pond, and a 
perfect seasoning of hickories, tell thar ain’t much left of him, 
or, may be, they don’t stop to curry him, but jest halters him at 
once to the nearest swinging limb.” 

“ Sharp justice ! and which of these punishments will they be 
likely to bestow upon the Yankee 1” 


CODE AND PRACTICE OF THE REGULATORS. 


71 


“Well tliar’s no telling; but I reckon he runs a smart 
chance of grazing agin the whole on ’em. They’ve got i long 
account agin him. In one way or t’other, he’s swindled every- 
body with his notions. Some bought his clocks, which only 
went while the rogue stayed, and when he went they stopt for- 
ever. Some bought ready-made clothes, which went to pieces 
at the very sight of soap and water. He sold a fusee to old 
Jerry Seaborn, and warranted the piece, and it bursted into 
flinders, the very first fire, and tore little Jerry’s hand and arm 
— son of old Jerry — almost to pieces. He’ll never have the 
right use of it agin. And that ain’t all. Thar’s no counting up 
his offences.” 

“ Bad as the fellow is, do you think itvpossible that they will 
torture him as you describe, or hang him, without law, and a 
fair trial ?” 

“Why, Lord love you, ha’n’t I told you that he’ll have a fair 
trial, afore the regilators, and thar’ll be anjr number of witnes- 
ses, and judges, and sheriffs, and executioners. But, ef you 
know’d Bunce, you’d know that a fair trial is the very last mar- 
cy that he'd aix of Providence. Don’t you think now that he’ll 
git anything worse than his righteous desarvings. He’s a fel- 
low that’s got no more of a saving soul in him than my whip- 
handle, and ain’t half so much to be counted on in a fight. He’s 
jest now nothing but a cheat and a swindle from head to foot ; 
hain’t got anything but cheat in him — hain’t got room for any 
principle— not enough either to git drunk with a friend, or have 
it out, in a fair fight, with his enemy. I shouldn’t myself wish 
to see the fellow’s throat cut, but I ain’t slow to say that I shall 
go for his tasting a few hickories, after that a dip in the horse- 
pond, and then a permit to leave the country by the shortest 
cut, and without' looking behind him, under penalty of having 
the saft places on his back covered with the petticoats of Lot’s 
wife, that we hear of in the Scriptures.” 

Ralph Colleton was somewhat oppressed with apathy, and he 
knew how idle would be any attempt to lessen the hostility of 
the sturdy woodman, in respect to the wretched class of traders, 
such as were described in Jared Bunce, by whom the. simple 
and dependent borderers in the South and West, were shock- 
ingly imposed upon. He made but a feeble effort accordingly, ijj 


72 


GUY RIVERS. 


this direction, hut was somewhat more earnest in insisting upon 
the general propriety of forbearance, in a practice which milita- 
ted against law and order, and that justice should he adminis- 
tered only by the proper hands. But to this, Mark Forrester 
had his ready answer; and, indeed, our young traveller was 
speaking according to the social standards of a wholly different 
region. 

“ There, again, ’squire, you are quite out. The laws, some- 
how or other, can’t touch these fellows. They run through the 
country a wink faster than the sheriff, and laugh at all the pro- 
cesses you send after them. So, you see, there’s no justice, no 
how, unless you catch a rogue like this, and wind up with him 
for all the gang — for they’re- all alike, all of the same family, 
and it comes to the same thing in the end.” 

The youth answered languidly. He began to tire, and na- 
ture craved repose, and the physician had urged it. Forrester 
readily perceived that the listener’s interest was flagging — nay 
he half fancied that much that he had been saying, and in his 
best style, had falle^^ upon drowsy senses. Nobody likes to 
have his best things thrown away, and, as the reader will readi- 
ly conceive, our friend Forrester had a sneaking consciousness 
that all the world’s eloquence did not cease on the day when 
Demosthenes died. But he was not the person to he offended 
because the patient desired to sleep. Far from it. He was 
only reasonable enough to suppose that this was the properest 
thing that the wounded man could do. And so he told him ; 
and adjusting carefully the pillows of the youth, and disposing 
the bedclothes comfortably, and promising to see him again be- 
fore he slept, our woodman hade him good night, and descended 
to the great hall of the tavern, where J ared Bunce was held in 
durance. 

The luckless pedler was, in truth, in a situation in which, for 
the first time in his life, he coveted nothing. The )eril was 
one, also, from which, thus far, his mother-wit, which seldom 
failed before, could suggest no means of evasion or escape. 
His prospect was a dreary one; though with the wonderful 
capacity for endurance, and the surprising cheerfulness, common 
to the class to which he belonged, he beheld it without dismay 
though with many apprehensions. 


CODE AND PRACTICE OF THE REGULATORS. 73 

Justice he did not expect, nor, indeed, as Forrester has 
already told us, did he desire it. He asked for nothing less 
than justice. He was dragged before judges, all of whom had 
complaints to prefer, and injuries to redress ; and none of whom 
were over-scrupulous as to the nature or measure of that punish- 
ment which was to procure them the desired atonement. The 
company was not so numerous as noisy. It consisted of some 
twenty persons, villagers as well as small farmers in the neigh- 
borhood, all of whom, having partaken ad libitum of the whis- 
key distributed freely about the table, which, in part, they 
surrounded, had, in the Indian phrase, more tongues than brains, 
and were sufficiently aroused by their potations to enter readily 
into any mischief. Some were smoking with all the industrious 
perseverance of the Hollander ; others shouted forth songs in 
honor of the bottle, and with all the fervor and ferment of 
Bacchanalian novitiates ; and not a few, congregating about the 
immediate person of the pedler, assailed his ears with tlireats 
sufficiently pregnant with tangible illustration to make him un- 
derstand and acknowledge, by repeated starts and wincings, the 
awkward and uncomfortable predicament in which he stood. 
At length, the various disputants for justice, finding it difficult, 
if not impossible, severally, to command that attention which 
they conceived they merited, resolved themselves into some- 
thing like a committee of the whole, and proceeded to the settle- 
ment of their controversy, and the pedler’s fate, in a manner 
more suited to the importance of the occasion. Having pro- 
cured that attention which was admitted to be the great object, 
more by the strength of his lungs than liis argument, one of the 
company, who was dignified by the title of colonel, spoke out 
for the rest. 

“ I say, boys — ’tisn’t of any use, I reckon, for everybody to 
speak about what everybody knows. One speaker’s quite 
enough in this here matter before us, Here’s none of us that 
ha’n’t something to say agin this pedler, and -the doings of tlie 
grand scoundrel in and about these parts, for a matter going on 
now about three years. Why, everybody knows him, big and 
little ; and his reputation is so now, that the very boys take his 
name to frighten away the crows with. Now, one person can 
jist as well make a plain statement as another. I know, of my 

4 


74 


out RIVERS. 


own score, there’s not one of my neighbors for ten miles round, 
that can’t tell all about the rotten prints he put off upon my old 
woman ; and I know myself of all the tricks he’s played at odd 
times, more than a dozen, upon ’Squire Nichols there, and Tom 
Wescott, and Boh Snipes, and twenty others; and everybody 
knows them just as well as I. Now, to make up the score, and 
square off with the pedler, without any flustration, I move you 
that Lawyer Pippin take the chair, and judge in this matter ; 
for the day has come for settling off accounts, and I don’t see 
why we shouldn’t be the regulators for Bunco, seeing that every- 
body agrees that he’s a rogue, and a pestilence, and desarves 
regilation.” 

This speech was highly applauded, and chimed in admirably 
with all prejudices, and the voice that called Lawyer Pippin to 
preside over the deliberations of the assembly was unanimous. 
I’lie gentleman thus highly distinguished, was a dapper and 
rather portly little personage, with sharp twinkling eyes, a ruby 
and remarkable nose, a double chin, retreating forehead, and 
corpulent cheek. He wore green glasses of a dark, and a green 
coat of a light, complexion. The lawyer was the only member 
of the profession living in the village, had no competitor save 
when the sitting of the court brought in one or more from neigh- 
boring settlements, and, being thus circumstanced, without op- 
position, and the only representative of his craft, he was liter- 
ally, to employ the slang phrase in that quarter, the cock of 
the walk.” He was, however, not so much regarded by the 
villagers a worthy as a clever man. It required not erudition 
to win the credit of profundity, and the lawyer knew how to 
make the most of his learning among those who had none. 
Like many other gentleifien of erudition, he was grave to a 
proverb when the occasion required it, and would not be seen 
to laugh out of the prescribed place, though “ Nestor swore the 
jest was laughable.” He relied greatly on saws and sayings 
— could quote you the paradoxes of Johnson and the infidelities 
of Hume without always understanding them, and mistook, as 
men of that kind and calibre are very apt to do, the capacity 
to repeat the grave absurdities of others as a proof of some- 
thing in himself. His business was not large, however, and 
among the arts of his profession, and as a means for supplying 


CODE AND PKACTICE OF THE RLvkULATORS. 


75 


the absence of more legitimate occasions for its employment, 
he was reputed as excessively expert in making the most of any 
difficulty among his neighbors. The egg of mischief and con- 
troversy was hardly laid, before the worthy lawyer, with mater- 
nal care, came clucking about it ; he watched and warmed it 
without remission ; and when fairly hatched, he took care that 
tlie whole brood should be brought safely into court, his voice, 
and words, and actions, fully attesting the deep interest in their 
fortunes which he had manifested from the beginning. Many a 
secret slander, ripening at length into open warfare, had been 
traced to his friendly influence, either ab ovoy or at least from 
the perilous period in such cases when the very existence of 
tlie embryo relies upon the friendly breath, the sustaining 
warmth, and the occasional stimulant. Lawyer Pippin, among 
Iiis neighbors, was just the man for such achievements, and they 
gave him, with a degi*ee of shrewdness common to them as a 
people, less qualified credit for the capacity which he at all 
times exhibited in bringing a case into, than in carrying it out 
of court. But this opinion in nowise affected the lawyer’s own 
estimate of his pretensions. Next to being excessively mean, 
he was excessively vain, and so highly did he regard his own 
opinions, that he was never content until he heard himself 
busily employed in their utterance. An opportunity for a 
speech, such as the present, Avas not suffered to pass Avithout 
: due regard ; but as we propose that he shall exhibit himself in 
the most happy manner at a later period in our narrative, Ave 
1 shall abridge, in few, the long string of queerly-associated words 
: in the form of a speech, Avhich, on assuming the chair thus as- 
, signed him, he poured forth upon the assembly. After a long 
prefatory, apologetic, and deprecatory exordium, in Avhich his 
: own demerits, as is usual with small speakers, Avorc strenuously 
urged ; and after he had exhausted most of the commonplaces 
i about the purity of the ermine upon the robes of justice, and the 
i golden scales, and the unshrinking balance, and the unsparing 
i and certain SAvord, he Avent on thus : — 

^ “ And noAv, my friends, if I rightly understand the responsi- 

' bility and obligations of the station thus kindly conferred upon 
I me, I am required to arraign the pedler, Jared Bunce, before 
' ou, on behalf of the country, which country, as the clerk reads 


76 


GUY RIVERS. 


It, you undoubtedly are ; and here let me remark, my fr ends^ 
the excellent and nice distinction which this phrase makes 
between the man and the soil, betAveen the noble intellect and 
the high soul, and the mere dirt and dust upon which avc daily 
tread. This very phrase, my friends, is a fine embodiment of 
that democratic principle upon Avhich the glorious constitution 
is erected. But, as I Avas saying, my friends, I am required to 
arraign before you this same pedler, Jared Bunce, on sundry 
charges of misdemeanor, and swindling, and fraud — in short, as 
I understand it, for endeavoring, without having* the fear of 
God and good breeding in his eyes, to pass himself off upon 
the good people of this county as an honest man. Is this the 
charge, my friends V’ 

“ Ay, ay, lawyer, that’s the Iioav, that’s the very thing itself. 
Put it to the skunk, let him deny that if he can — let him deny 
that his name is Jared Bunce — that he hails from Connecticut 
— that he is a shark, and a pirate, and a pestilence. Let him 
deny that he is a cheat ^ — that he goes about with his notions 
and other rogueries — that he doesn’t manufacture maple-seeds, 
and hickory nutmegs, and ground coffee made out of rotten rye. 
AnsAver to that, Jared Bunce, you Avhite-liA'ered lizard.” 

Thus did one of his accusers take up the thread of the dis- 
course as concluded in part by the chairman. Another and 
another followed with like speeches in the most rapid succession, 
until all was again confusion; and the voice of the lawyer, 
after a hundred ineffectual efforts at a hearing, degenerated into 
a fine squeak, and terminated at last in a violent fit of cough- 
ing, that fortunately succeeded in producing the degree of quiet 
around him to secure Avhich his language had, singularly enough, 
entirely failed. For a moment the company ceased its clamor, 
out of respect to the chairman’s cough ; and, having cleared his 
throat with the contents of a tumbler of Monongahela Avhich 
seemed to stand pferr.anently full by his side, he recommenced' 
the proceedings ; the offender, in the meantime, standing mute 
and motionless, now almost stupified with terror, conscious of 
repeated offences, knowing perfectly the reckless spirit of those 
who judged him, and hopeless of escape from their hands, 
Avithout, in the country phrase, the loss at least of “Aving and 
tail feathers.” The eliaitmah At^ith rlue gravity began; — 


CODE AND PRACTICE OF THE REGULATORS. 


77 


“ Jared Bunce — is that your name ?” 

“ Why, lawyer, I can’t deny that I have gone hy that name, 
and I guess it’s the right name for me to go hy, seeing that I 
was christened Jared, after old Uncle Jared Withers, that lives 
down at Dedham, in the state of Massachusetts. He did prom- 
ise to do something for me, seeing I was named after him, but 
he ha’n’t done nothing yet, no how. Then the name of Bunce, 
you see, lawyer, I got from my father, his name being Bunce, 
too, I guess.” 

“Well, Jared Bunce, answer to the point, and without cir- 
cumlocution. You have heard some of the charges against you. 
Having taken them down in short-hand, I will repeat them.” 

The pedler approached a few steps, advanced one leg, raised 
a hand to his ear, and put on all the external signs of devout 
attention, as the chairman proceeded in the long and curious 
array. 

“ First, then, it is charged against you, Bunce, by young Dick 
Jenkins, that stands over in front of you there, that somewhere 
between the fifteenth and twenty-third of June — last June,was 
a year — you came by night to his plantation, he living at that 
time in De Kalb county ; that you stopped the night with him, 
without charge, and in the morning you traded a clock to his 
wife for fifteen dollars, and that you had not been gone two 
days, before the said clock began to go whiz, whiz, whiz, and 
commenced striking, whizzing all the while, and never stopped 
till it had struck clear thirty-one, and since that time it will 
neither whiz, nor strike, nor do nothing.” 

“Why, lawyer, I ain’t the man to deny the truth of this 
transaction, you see ; but, then, you must know, much depends 
upon the way you manage a clock. A clock is quite a delicate 
and ticklish article of manufacture, you see, and it ain’t every- 
body that can make a clock, or can make it go when it don’t 
want to ; and if a man takes a hammer or a horsewhip, or any 
other unnatural weapon to it, as if it was a house or a horse, 
why, I guess, it’s not reasonable to expect it to keep in order, 
and it’s no use in having a clock no how, if you don’t treat it 
well. As for its striking thirty-one, that indeed is something 
remarkable, for I never heard one of mine strike more than 
twelve, and that’s zaclly the number they’re regulated to strike. 


78 


GtTY RiVEttS. 


But, after all, lawyer, I don’t see that Squire Jenkins has been 
much a loser by the trade, seeing that he paid me in bills of the 
Ilogee-nogce bank, and that stopped payment about the time, 
and before I could get the bills changed. It’s true, T didn’t let 
on that I knowed anything about it, and got rid of the paper a 
little while before the thing went through the country.” 

“ Now, look ye, you gingerbread-bodied Yankee — I’d like to 
know what you mean about taking whip and hammer to the 
clock. If you mean to say that I ever did such a thing. I’ll 
lick you noAv, by the eternal scratch !” 

“ Order, order, Mr. Jenkins — order ! The chair must be re- 
spected. You must come to order, Mr. Jenkins — ” Avas the 
vociferous and urgent cry of the chairman, repeated by half a 
dozen voices ; the pedler, in the meanwhile, half doubting the 
efficacy of the call, retreating with no little terror behind the 
chair of the dignified personage who presided. 

“ Well, you needn’t make such a hoAvling about it,” said Jen- 
kins, Avrathfully, and looking around him with the sullen fero- 
city of a chafed bear. “ I know jist as well how to keep order, 
I reckon, as any on you ; but I don’t see how it will be out of 
order to lick a Yankee, or who can hinder me, if I choose it.” 

“ Well, don’t look at me, Dick Jenkins, with such a look, or 
I’ll have a finger in that pie, old fellow. I’m no Yankee to be 
frightened by sich a lank-sided fellow as you ; and, by dogs, if 
nobody else can keep you in order, I’m jist the man to try if I 
can’t. So don’t put on any shines, old boy, or I’ll darken your 
peepers, if I don’t come very nigh plucking them out alto 
gether.” 

So spake another of the company, AAffio, having been much 
delectified with the trial, had been particularly solicitous in his 
cries for order. Jenkins Avas not indisposed to the affray, and 
made an angry retort, which provoked another still more angry ; 
but other parties interfering, the new difficulty Avas made to 
give place to that already in hand. The imputation upon Jen- 
kins, that his ignorance of the claims of the clock to gentle 
treatment, alone, had induced it to speak thirty-one times, and 
at length refuse to speak at all, had touched his pride ; and, 
sorely vexed, he retired upon a glass of whiskey to the farther 
cornel of the room, and with his pipe, nursing the fiimes of his 


CODE AND PRACTICE OP THE REGULATORS. 79 

wrath, he waited impatiently the signal for the wild mischief 
which he knew would come. 

In the meanwhile, the examination of the culprit proceeded ; 
but, as we can not hope to convoy to the reader a description 
of the affair as it happened, to the life, we shall content our- 
selves with a brief summary. The chair went on rapidly enu- 
merating the sundry misdeeds of the Yankee, demanding, and 
in most cases receiving, rapid and unhesitating replies — eva- 
sively and adroitly framed, for the offender w’ell knew that a 
single unlucky word or phrase would bring down upon his shoul- 
ders a wilderness of blows. 

“ You are again charged, Bunce, with having sold to Colonel 
Blundell a coffee-pot and two tin cups, all of which w’ent to 
pieces — the solder melting off at the very sight of the hot 
water.” 

“Well, lawyer, it stands to reason I can’t answer for that, 
The tin wares I sell stand well enough in a northern climate : 
there may be some difference in yours that I can’t account for ; 
and I guess, pretty much, there is. Now’-, your people are a 
mighty hot-tempered people, and take a fight for breakfast, and 
make three meals a day out of it : now, we in the north have 
no stomach for such fare ; so here, now, as far as I can see, 
your climate takes pretty much after the people, and if so, it’s 
no wmnder that solder can’t stand it. Who knows, again, but 
you boil your water quite too hot? Now, I guess, there’s jest 
as much harm in boiling water too hot, as in not boiling it hot 
enough. Who knows ? All I can say is, that the lot of wares 
I bring to this market next season shall be calkilated on pur- 
pose to suit the climate.” 

The chairman seemed struck with this view of the case, and 
spoke wdin a gravity corresponding with the deep sagacity he 
eonceived himself to have exhibited. 

“ There does seem to be something in this ; and it stands to 
reason, what wdll do for a nation of pedlers won’t do for us. 
Why, when I recollect that they are buried in snows half tht 
year, and living on nothing else the other half, I wonder how 
they get the water to boil at all. Answer that, Bunce.” 

“Well, lawyer, I guess you must have travelled pretty con- 
siderable dcwn east in your time and among my people, for you 


80 


GUY RIVERS. 


do seem to know all about the matter jest as well and something 
-better than myself.’^ 

The lawyer, not a little flattered by the compliment so slyly 
and evasively put in, responded to the remark with a duo regard 
to his own increase of importance. 

“ I am not ignorant of your country, pedler, and of the ways 
of its people ; but it is not me that you are to satisfy. Answer 
to the gentlemen around, if it is not a difficult matter for you to 
get water to boil at all during the winter months.” 

“ Why, to say the truth, lawyer, when coal is scarce and high 
in the market, heat is very hard to come. Now, I guess the 
ware I brought out last season was made under those circum- 
stances ; but I have a lot on hand now, which will be here in a 
day or two, which I should like to trade to the colonel, and I 
guess I may venture to say, all the hot water in the country 
won’t melt the solder off.” 

“ I tell you what, pedler, we are more likely to put you in 
hot water than try any more of your ware in that way. But 
where’s your plunder? — let us see this fine lot of notions you 
speak of” — was the speech of the colonel already so much re- 
ferred to, and whose coffee-pot bottom furnished so broad a 
foundation for the trial. He was a wild and roving person, to 
whom the tavern, and the racecourse, and the cockpit, from his 
very boyhood up, had been as the breath of life, and with whom 
the chance of mischief was never willingly foregone. But the 
pedler was wary, and knew his man. The lurking smile and 
sneer of the speaker had enough in them for the purposes of 
warning, and he replied evasively : — 

“Well, colonel, you shall see them by next Tuesday or 
Wednesday. I should be glad to have a trade with you — the 
money’s no object — and if you have furs, or skins, or anything 
that you like to get off your hands, there’s no difficulty, that I 
can see, to a long bargain.” 

“ But Avhy not trade now, Bunce ? — what’s to hinder us now ? 
I sha’n’t be in the village after Monday.” 

“Well, then, colonel, that’ll just suit me, for I did calkilate 
to call on you at the farm, on my way into the nation where 
I’m going looking out for furs.” 

“ Yes, and live on the best for a week, under some pretence 


CODE AND PRACTICE 01 THE REGULATORS. 


81 


tLat your nag is sick, or you sick, o r something in the way of a 
start — then go off, cheat, and laugh at me in the bargain. I 
reckon, old boy, you don’t come over me in that way again ; 
and I’m not half done with you yet about the kettles. That 
story of yours about the hot and cold may do for the pigeons, 
but you don’t think the hawks will swallow it, do ye ? Come — 
out vrith your notions !” 

“ Oh, 'o be sure, only give a body time, colonel,” as, pulled 
by thd cellar, with some confusion and in great trepidation, re- 
spond el the beleagured dealer in clocks and calicoes — “they 
shall >411 be here in a day or two at most. Seeing that one of 
my cimt ires was foundered, I had to leave the goods, and drive 
the ot'ter here without them.” 

The ^;3dler had told the truth in part only. One of his horses 
had indeed struck lame, but he had made out to bring him to 
the vilJy^ge with all his wares ; and this fact, as in those regions 
of quep^on and inquiry was most likely to be the case, had al- 
ready Mken wind. 

“ No t, look ye, Bunce, do you take me for a blear-eyed mole, 
that never seed the light of a man's eyes?” inquired Blundell, 
closely approaching the beset tradesman, and taking him lei- 
surely by the neck. “ Do you want to take a summerset through 
that window, old fellow, that you try to stuff us with such tough 
stories ? If you do, I rether reckon you can do it without much 
difficulty.” Thus speaking, and turning to some of those around 
him, he gave directions which imparted to the limbs of the ped- 
ler a continuous and crazy motion, that made his teeth chatter. 

“ Hark ye, boys, jist step out, and bring in the cart of Jared 
Bunce, wheels and all, if so be that the body won’t come off 
easily. We’ll see for ourselves.” 

It was now the pedler’s turn for speech ; and, forgetting the 
precise predicament in which he personally stood, and only so- 
licitous to save his chattels from the fate which he plainly saw 
awaited them, his expostulations and entreaties were rapid and 
energetic. 

“Now, colonel — gentlemen — my good friends — to-morrow 
or the next day you shall see them all — I’ll go with you to 
your plantation — ” 

“No, thank yo. I want none of your company --and, look 

4 * 


82 


GUY RIVERS. 


ye, if you know when you’re well off, don’t undertake to call 
me your friend. I say, Mr. Chairman, if it’s in order — I don’t 
want to do anything disorderly — I move that Bunco’s cart he 
moved here into this very room, that we may see for ourselves 
the sort of substance he brings here to put off upon us.” 

The chairman had long since seemingly given up all hope of 
exercising, in their true spirit, the duties of the station which 
he held. For a while, it is true, he battled with no little en- 
ergy for the integrity of his dignity, with good lungs and a stout 
spirit ; but, though fully a match in these respects for any one, 
or perhaps any two of his competitors, he found the task of con- 
tending with the dozen rather less easy, and, in a little while, 
his speeches, into which he had lugged many a choice ad caf- 
tandum of undisputed effect on any other occasion, having been 
completely merged and mingled with those of the mass, he 
wisely forbore any further waste of matter, in the stump-oratory 
of the South usually so precious; and, drawing himself up 
proudly and profoundly in his high place, he remained digni- 
fiedly sullen, until the special reference thus made by Colonel 
Blundell again opened the fountains of the oracle and set them 
flowing. 

The lawyer, thus appealed to, in a long tirade, and in his 
happiest manner, delivered his opinion in the premises, and in 
favor of the measure. How, indeed, could he do otherwise, 
and continue- that tenacious pursuit of his own interests which 
had always been the primary aim and object, as well of the 
profession as the person. He at once sagaciously beheld the 
embryo lawsuit and contingent controversy about to result from 
the proposition; and, in his mind, with a far and free vision, 
began to compute the costs and canvass the various terms and 
prolonged trials of county court litigation. He saw fee after 
fee thrust into his hands — he beheld the opposing parties desi- 
rous to conciliate, and extending to him sundry of those equivo- 
cal courtesies, which, though they take not the shape of money 
are money’s worth, and the worthy chairman had no scruples 
as to the propriety of the measure. The profits and pay once 
adjusted to his satisfaction, his spirit took a broad sweep, and 
the province of human fame, circumscribed, it is true, within 
the tcti mile circuit of his horizon, was at once open before him, 


CODE AND PRACTICE OF THE REGULATORS. 


83 


He beheld the strife, and enjoyed the triumph over his fellow 
laborers at the bar — he already heard the applauses of his 
neighbors at this or that fine speech or sentiment ; and his form 
grew insensibly erect, and his eye glistened proudly, as he 
freely and fully assented to the measure which promised such 
an abundant harvest. Vainly did the despairing and dispirited 
pedler implore a different judgment ; the huge box which cap- 
ped the body of his travelling vehicle, torn from its axle, with- 
out any show of reverential respect for screw or ‘fastening, was 
borne in a moment through the capacious entrance of the hall, 
and placed conspicuously upon the table. 

“ The key, Bunce, the key !” was the demand of a dozen. 

The pedler hesitated for a second, aud the pause was fatal. 
Before he could redeem his error, a blow from a hatchet settled 
the difficulty, by distributing the fine deal-box cover, lock and 
hinges, in fragments over the apartment. The revelation of 
wares and fabrics — a strange admixture, with propriety desig- 
nated “notions” — brought all eyes immediately around, and 
rendered, .a new order, for common convenience, necessary in 
the aiTangement qf the company. The chairman, chair and 
man, were in a moment raised to a corresponding elevation 
upon the table, over the collection; and the controversy and 
clamor, from concentrating, as it did before, upon the person 
of the pedler, were now transferred to the commodities he brought 
for sale. Order having been at length obtained. Colonel Blun- 
dell undertook the assertion o^ his own and the wrongs of his 
fellow-sufferers, and kept uninterrupted possession of the floor. 

“ And now, Mr. Chairman, I will jist go a little into the par 
ticulars of the rogueries and rascalities of this same Yankee. 
Now, in the first place, he is a Yankee, and that’s enough, it- 
self, to bring him to punishment — but we’ll let that pass, and 
go to his other transactions — for, as I reckon, it’s quite punish- 
ment enough for that offence, to be jist what he is. He has 
traded rotten stuffs about the country, that went to pieces the 
fiist washing. He has traded calico prints, warranted for fast 
colors, that ran faster than he ever ran himself. He has sold 
us tin stuffs, that didn’t stand hot water at all ; and then thinks 
to get off, by saying they were not made for our climate. And 
let me ask, Mr. Chairman, if they wasn’t made for our climate, 


84 


GUY RIVERS. 


why did he bring ’em here ? let him come to the scratch, and 
answer that, neighbors — but he can’t. Well, then, you’ve 
all hearn, he has traded clocks to us at money’s worth, that one 
day ran faster than a Virginny race-mare, and at the very next 
day, would strike lame, and wouldn’t go at all, neither for beat- 
ing nor coaxing —and besides all these doings, neighbors, if 
these an’t quite enough to carry a skunk to the horsepond, he 
has committed his abominations without number, all through 
the country high and low — for hain’t he lied and cheated, and 
then had the mean cowardice to keep out of the way of the 
regUators, who have been on the look-out for his tracks for the 
last half year? Now, if these things an’t desarving of punish- 
ment, there’s nobody fit to be hung — there’s nobody that ought 
to be whipped. Hickories oughtn’t to grow any longer, and 
the best thing the governor, can do would be to have all the 
jails burnt down from one eend of the country to the other. 
The proof stands up agin Bunce, and there’s no denying it ; 
and it’s no use, no how, to let this fellow come among us, year 
after year, to play the same old hand, take our money for his 
rascally goods, then go away and laugh at us. And the ques- 
tion before us is jist what I have said, and what shall we do 
with the critter ? To show you that it’s high time to do some- 
thing in the matter, look at this calico print, that looks, to be 
sure, very well to the eye, except, as you see, here’s a tree with 
red leaves and yellow flowers — a most ridiculous notion, indeed, 
for who ever seed a tree with sich colors here, in the very be- 
ginning of summer ?” 

Here the pedler, for the moment, more solicitous for the credit 
of the manufactures than for his own safety, ventured to suggest 
that the print was a mere fancy, a matter of taste — in fact, a 
notion,' and not therefore to be judged by the standard which 
had been brought to decide upon its merits. He did not ven- 
ture, however, to say what, perhaps, would have been the true 
hori. of the difficulty, that the print was an autumn or winter il- 
lustration, for that might have subjected him to condign punish- 
ment for its unseasonableness. As it was, the defence set up 
was to the full as unlfrcky as any other might have been. 

“ I’ll tell you what. Master Bunce, it won’t do to take natur 
hi vain* If fjii can show me a better painter than nattir, from 


CODE and practice OE THE REGULATORS. Sb 

youi pairts, I give up ; but until that time, I say that any man 
wlio thinks to give the woods a different sort of face from what 
God give ’em, ought to he licked for his impudence if nothing 
else.” 

The pedler ventured again to expostulate ; but the argument 
having been considered conclusive against him, he was made 
to hold his peace, while the prosecutor proceeded. 

“Now then, Mr. Chairman, as I was saying — here is a sam- 
ple of the kind of stuff he thinks to impose upon us. Look now 
at this here article, and I reckon it’s jist as good as any of the 
rest, and say whether a little touch of Lynch’s law, an’t the 
very thing for the Yankee !” 

Holding up the devoted calico to the gaze of the assembly, 
with a single effort of his strong and widely-distended arms, he 
rent it asunder with little difficulty, the sweep not terminating', 
until the stuff, which, by-the-way, resigned itself without strug- 
gle or resistance to its fate, had been most completely and 
evenly divided. The poor pedler in vain endeavored to stay 
a ravage that, once begun, became epidemical. He struggled 
and strove with tenacious hand, holding on to sundry of his 
choicest bales, and claiming protection from the chair, until 
warned of his imprudent zeal in behalf of goods so little deserv- 
ing of the risk, by the sharp and sudden application of an un- 
known hand to his ears which sent him reeling against the 
table, and persuaded him into as great a degree of patience, as, 
under existing circumstances, he could be well expected to ex- 
hibit. Article after article underwent a like analysis of its 
strength and texture, and a warm emulation took place among 
the rioters, as to their several capacities in the work of destruc- 
tion. The shining bottoms were tom from the tin-wares in 
order to prove that such a separation was possible, and it is 
doing but brief justice to the pedler to say, that, whatever, in 
fact, might have been the true character of his commodities, 
the very choicest of human fabrics could never have resisted 
the various tests of bone and sinew, tooth and nail, to which 
they were indiscriminately subjected. Immeasurable was the 
confusion that followed. All restraints were removed — all hin- 
drances withdrawn, and the tide rushed onward with a most 
headlong tendency 


86 


GUY RIVERS. 


Apprehensive of pecuniary responsibilities in his own person, 
and having his neighbors wrought to the desired pitch — fear- 
ing, also, lest his station might somewhat involve himself in the 
meshes he was weaving around others, the sagacious chairman, 
upon the first show of violence, roared out his resignation, and 
descended from his place. But this movement did not impair 
tlie industry of the regulators. A voice was heard proposing a 
bonfire of the merchandise, and no second suggestion was neces- 
sary. All hands but those of the pedler and the attorney were 
employed in building the pyre in front of the tavern some thirty 
yards ; and here, in choice confusion, lay flaming calicoes, ille- 
gitimate silks, worsted hose, wooden clocks and nutmegs, maple- 
wood seeds of all descriptions, plaid cloaks, scents, and spices, 
jumbled up in ludicrous variety. A dozen hands busied them- 
selves in applying the torch to the devoted mass — howling over 
it, at every successive burst of flame that went up into the dark 
atmosphere, a savage yell of triumph that tallied Avell with the 
proceeding. 

“ Hurrah !” 

The scene was one of indescribable confusion. The rioters 
danced about the blaze like so many frenzied demons. Strange, 
no one attempted to appropriate the property that must have 
been a temptation to all. 

Our pedler, though he no longer strove to interfere, was by 
no means insensible to the ruin of his stock in trade. It was 
calculated to move to pity, in any other region, to behold him 
as he stood in the doorway, stupidly watching the scene, while 
the big tears were slowly gathering in his eyes, and falling down 
his bronzed and furrowed cheeks. The rough, hard, unscrupu- 
lous man can always weep for himself. Whatever the demerits 
of the rogue, our young traveller above stairs, would have re- 
garded him as the victim of a too sharp justice. Not so the 
participators in the outrage. They had been too freq^iently the 
losers by the cunning practice of the pedler, to doubt for a mo- 
ment the perfect propriety — nay, the very moderate measure 
— of that wild justice which they were dealing out to his mis- 
deeds. And with this even, they were not satisfied. As the 
perishable calicoes roared up and went down in the flames, as 
the pans and pots and cups melted away in the furnace heat. 


CODE AND PRACTICE OF THE REGULATORS. 


87 


and the painfed faces of the wooden clocks, glared ont like 
those of John Rogers at the stake, enveloped in lire, the cries 
of the crowd were mingled in with a rude, wild chorus, in which 
the pedler was made to understand that he stood himself in a 
peril almost as great as his consuming chattels. It was the fa- 
mous ballad of the regulators that he heard, and it smote his 
heart with a consciousness of his personal danger that made 
him shiver in his shoes. The uncouth doggrel, recited in a 
lilting sort of measure, the peculiar and various pleasures of a 
canter upon a pine rail. It was clear that the mob were by no 
means satisfied with the small measure of sport which they had 
enjoyed. A single verse of this savage ditty will suffice for the 
present, rolled out upon the air, from fifty voices, the very boys 
and negroes joining in the chorus, and making it tell terribly to 
the senses of the threatened person. First one voice would 
warble 

“ Did you ever, ever, ever!” — 

and there was a brief pause, at the end of which the crowd 
joined in with unanimous burst and tremendous force of lungs : — 

‘ D?d you ever, ever, ever, in your life ride a rail 7 

Such a deal of pleasure’s in it, that you never can refuse : 

You are mounted on strong shoulders, that’ll never, never fail, 

Though you pray’d with tongue of sinner, just to plant you where they 
choose. 

Though the brier patch is nigh you, looking up with thorny faces, 

They never wait to see how you like the situation. 

But down you go a rolling, through the penetrating places, 

Nor scramble out until you give the cry of approbation. 

Oh ! pleasant is the riding, highly-seated on the rail. 

And worthy of the wooden horse, the rascal that we ride i 

Let us see the mighty shoulders that will never, never fail. 

To lift him high, and plant him, on the crooked rail astride. 

The seven-sided pine rail, the pleasant bed of briar, 

The little touch of hickoiy law, with a dipping in the mire 
“ Did you ever, ever, ever,” &c., 

from the troupe in full blast ! 

The lawyer Pippin suddenly stood beside the despairing 
pedler, as this ominous ditty was poured upon the night-wiuds. 

“ Do you hear that song, Bunce he asked. “ How do you 
like the music P* 


88 


GtrY RIVERS, 


Tlie pedlcr looked in his face with a mixed*' expression of 
grief, anger, and stupidity, hut he said nothing. 

“ Hark ye, Bunce,” continued the lawyer. “ Do you know 
what that means 1 Does your hrain take in its meaning, my 
friend ?” 

“ Friend, indeed !” was the very natural exclamation of the 
pedlcr as he shrank from the hand of the lawyer, which had 
been affectionately laid upon his shoulder. “ Friend, indeed ! 
I say. Lawyer Pippin, if it hadn’t been for you, I’d never ha* 
been in this fix. I’m ruined by you.” 

“ Ruined by me ! Pshaw, Bunce, you are a fool. I was your 
friend all the time.” 

“ Oh, yes ! I can see how. But though you did stop, when 
they began, yet you did enough to set them on. That was like 
a good lawyer, I guess, but not so much like a friend. Had you 
been a friend, you could have saved my property from the be- 
ginning.” 

“Nay, nay, Bunce; you do me wrong. They 'had sworn 
against you long ago, and you know them well enough. The 
devil himself couldn’t stop ’em when once upon the track. But 
don’t be down in the mouth. I can save you now.*' 

“ Save me !” 

“ Ay ! don’t you hear ? They’re singing the regulation song 
Once that blaze goes down, they’ll be after you. It’s a wonder 
:hey’ve left you here so long. Now’s your time. You must be 
off. Fly by the back door, and leave it to me to get damages 
for your loss of property.” 

“ You, lawyer ? well, I should like to know how you calkilate 
to do that 

“ I’ll tell you. You know my profession.” 

“ I guess I do, pretty much.” 

“ Thus, then — most of these are men of substance; at least 
they have enough- to turn out a pretty good case each of them 
— now all you have to do is to bring suit. I’ll do all that, you 
know, the same as if you did it yourself. You must lay your 
damages handsomely, furnish a few affidavits, put the business 
entirely in my hands, and — how much is the value of your 
goods V* 


CODE AND PRACTICE OP THE REGULATORS. 89 

“Well, I guess they might he worth something over three 
hundred and twenty dollars and six shillings, York money.” 

“ Well, give me all the particulars, and I venture to assure you 
that I can get five hundred dollars damages at least, and per- 
haps a thousand. But of this we can talk more at leisure when 
you are in safety. Where’s your cart, Bunce ?” 

“ On t’other side of the house — what they’ve left on it.” 

“Now, then, while they’re busy over the blaze, put your 
tackle on, hitch your horse, and take the back track to my 
clearing; it’s but a shoi*t mile and a quarter, and you’ll be 
there in no time. I’ll follow in a little while, and we’ll arrange 
the matter.” 

“Well, now, lawyer, but I can’t — my horse, as you see, 
having over eat himself, is struck with the founders and can’t 
budge. I put him in ’Squire Dickens’ stable, ’long with his 
animals, and seeing that he hadn’t had much the day before, I 
emptied the corn from their troughs into his, and jest see what’s 
come of it. I hadn’t ought to done so, to be sure.” 

“ That’s bad, but that must not stop you. Your life, Bunce, 
is in danger, and I have too much regard for you to let you risk 
it by longer stay here. Take my nag, there — the second one 
from the tree, and put him in the gears in place of your own. 
He’s as gentle as a spaniel, and goes like a deer. You know 
the back track to my house, and I’ll come after you, and bring 
your creature along. I ’spose he’s not so stiff but he can bring 
me.” 

“He can do that, lawyer, I guess, without difficulty. I’ll 
move as you say, and be off pretty slick. Five hundred dollars 
damage, lawyer — eh!” 

“ No matter, till I see you. Put your nag in gears quickly 
— you have little time to spare !” 

The pedler proceeded to the work, and was in a little while 
ready for a start. But he lingered at the porch. 

“ I say, lawyer, it’s a hard bout they’ve given me this time. 
[ did fear they would be rash and obstropulous, but didn’t think 
they’d gone so far. Indeed, its clear, if it hadn’t been that the 
cretur failed me, I should not have trusted myself in the place, 
after what I was told.” 

“ Bunce, you have been rather sly in your dealings, and they 


90 


GUY RIVERS. 


have a got d deal to complain of. Now, though T ^jiud nothing 
about it, that coat you sold me for a black grew red with a 
week’s wear, and threadbare in a month.” 

“Now, don’t talk, lawyer, seeing you ha’n’t paid me for i1 
yet ; but that’s neither here nor there. If I did, as you say, 
sell my goods for something more than their vally, I hadn’t 
ought to had such a punishment as this.” 

The wild song of the rioters rang in his ears, followed by a 
proposition, seemingly made with the utmost gravity, to change 
the plan of operations, and instead of giving him the ride upon 
the rail, cap the blazing goods of his cart with the proper per- 
son of the proprietor. The pedler lingered to hear no further ; 
and the quick ear of the lawyer, as he returned into the hall, 
distinguished the rumbling motion of his cart hurrying down 
the road. But he had scarcely reseated himself and resumed 
his glass, before Bunce also reappeared. 

“ Why, man, I thought you were off. You burn daylight ; 
though they do say, those whom water won’t drown, rope must 
bang.” 

“ There is some risk, lawyer, to be sure ; but when I recol- 
lected this box, which you see is a fine one, though they have 
disfigured it, I thought I should have time enough to take it 
with me, and anything that might be lying about;” looking 
around the apartment as he spoke, and gathering up a few frag- 
ments which had escaped the general notice. 

“ Begone, fool !” exclaimed the lawyer, impatiently. “ They 
are upon you — they come — fly for your life, you dog — I hear 
their voices.” 

“ I’m off, lawyer” — and looking once behind him as he hur- 
ried off, the pedler passed from the rear of the building as those 
who sought him re-entered in front. 

“ The blood’s in him — the Yankee will be Yankee still,” was 
the muttered speech of the lawyer, as he prepared i o encounter 
the ret .rning rioters. 


THE YANKEE OUTWITS THE LAWYER. 


01 


CHAPTER VII. 

THE YANKEE OUTWITS THE LAWYER, 

It was at this moment that Forrester entered the tavem-hall, 
curious to know the result of the trial, from which his attend- 
ance upon Ralph had unavoidably detained him. The actors 
of the drama were in better humor than before, and uproarious 
mirth had succeeded to ferocity. They were all in the very ex- 
cess of self-glorification ; for, though somewhat disappointed of 
their design, and defrauded of the catastrophe, they had never- 
theless done much, according to their own judgment, and 
enough, perhaps, in that of the reader, for the purposes of jus- 
tice. The work of mischief had been fully consummated ; and 
though, to their notion, still somewhat incomplete from the 
escape of the pedler himself, they were in great part satisfied 
— some few among them, indeed — and among these our quon- 
dam friend Forrester may he included — were not sorry that 
Bunce had escaped the application of the personal tests which 
had been contemplated for his benefit ; for, however willing, it 
was somewhat doubtful whether they could have been alto- 
gether able to save him from the hands of those having a less 
scrupulous regard to humanity. 

The sudden appearance of Forrester revived the spirit of the 
transaction, now beginning somewhat to decline, as several 
voices undertook to give him an account of its progress. The 
lawyer was in his happiest mood, as things, so far. had all 
turned out as he expected. His voice was loudest, and his ora- 
tory more decidedly effective than ever. The prospect before 
him was also of so seductive a character, that he yielded more 
than was his wont to the influences of the bottle-god j who stood 
before him in the shape of the little negro, who served forth 
the whiskey, in compliance with the popular appetite, from a 


92 


GUT RIVERS. 


little iron-hooped keg, perched upon a shelf conveniently in this 
comer. 

“ Here CufiPee, you thrice-blackened baby of Beelzebub ! — 
why stand you there, arms akimbo, and showing yOur ivories, 
when you see we have no whiskey ! Bring in the jug, you 
imp of darkness — touch us the Monongahela, and a fresh tum- 
bler for Mr. Forrester — and, look you, one too for Col. Blundell, 
seeing he’s demolished the other. Quick, you terrapin !” 

CufiPee recovered himself in an instant. His hands fell to his 
sides — his mouth closed intuitively; and the whites of his eyes 
changing their fixed direction, marshalled his way with a fresh 
jug, containing two or more quarts, to the- rapacious lawyer. 

“Ah, you blackguard, that will do — now, Mr. Forrester — 
now. Col. Blundell — don’t be slow — no backing out, boys — hey, 
for a long drink to the stock in trade of our friend the pedler.” 

So spoke Pippin; a wild huzza attested the good humor 
which the proposition excited. Potation rapidly followed pota- 
tion, and the jug again demanded replenishing. The company 
was well drilled in this species of exercise ; and each individual 
claiming caste in such circle, must be well prepared, like the 
knight-challenger of old tourney, to defy all comers. In the 
cases of Pippin and Blundell, successive draughts, after the at- 
tainment of a certain degree of mental and animal stolidity^ 
. seemed rather to fortify than to weaken their defences, and to 
fit them more perfectly for a due prolongation of the warfare. 
The appetite, too, like most appetites, growing from what it fed 
on, ventured few idle expostulations ; glass after glass, in rapid 
succession, fully attested the claim of these two champions to 
the renown which such exercises in that section of the world 
had won for them respectively. The subject of conversation, 
which, in all this time, accompanied their other indulgences, 
was, very naturally, that of the pedler and his punishment. On 
this topic, however, a professional not less than personal policy 
sealed the lips of our lawyer except on those points which ad- 
mitted of a general remark, without application or even mean- 
ing. Though drunk, his policy was that of the courts ; and the 
practice of the sessions had served him well, in his own person, 
to give the lie to the vino veritas^' of the proverb 

Things were in this condition when the company found in- 


THE YANKEE OUTWITS THE LAWYER. \) 2 > 

crease in the person of the landlord, who now made his appear- 
ance ; and, as we intend that he shall he no unimportant auxili- 
ar in the action of our story, it may be prudent for a few mo- 
ments to dwell upon the details of his outward man, and 
severally, to describe his features. We have him before us in that 
large, dark, and somewhat heavy person, who sidles awkwardly 
into the apartment, as if only conscious in part of the true uses 
of his legs and arms. He leans at this moment over the shoul- 
ders of one of the company, and, while whispering in his ears, 
at the same time, with an upward glance, surveys the whole. 
His lowering eyes, almost shut in and partially concealed by 
his scowling and bushy eyebrows, are of a quick gray, stern, 
and penetrating in their general expression, yet, when narrow- 
ly observed, putting on an air of vacancy, if not stupidity, that 
furnishes a perfect blind to the lurking meaning within. His 
nose is large, yet not disproportionately so ; his head well made, 
though a phrenologist might object to a strong animal prepon- 
derance in the rear ; his mouth bold and finely curved, is rigid 
however in its compression, and the lips, at times almost woven 
together, are largely indicative of ferocity; they are pale in 
color, and dingily so, yet his flushed cheek and brow bear stri- 
king evidence of a something too frequent revel ; his hair, thin 
and scattered, is of a dark brown complexion and sprinkled 
with gray ; his neck is so very short that a single black hand- 
kerchief, wrapped loosely about it, removes all seeming dis- 
tinction between itself and the adjoining shoulders — the latter 
being round and uprising, forming a socket, into which the for- 
mer appears to fall as into a designated place. As if more ef- 
fectually to complete the unfavorable impression of such an 
outline, an ugly scar, partly across the cheek, and slightly im- 
pairing the integrity of the left nostril, gives to his whole look 
a sinister expression, calculated to defeat entirely any neutral- 
izing or less objectionable feature. His form — to conclude the 
picture— is constructed with singular power; and though not 
symmetrical, is far from ungainly. When impelled by some 
stirring motive, his carriage is easy, without seeming effort, 
and his huge frame throws aside the sluggishness which at other 
times invests it, putting on a habit of animated exercise, which 
changes the entire appearance of the man 


94 


GUY RIVEES. 


Such was Walter, or, as lie was there more familiarly termed 
Wat Munro. He took his seat with the company, with the ease 
of one who neither doubted nor deliberated upon the footing 
which he claimed among them. He was not merely the publi- 
can of his profession, but better fitted indeed for perliaps any 
other avocation, as may possibly he discovered in the progress 
of our narrative. To his wife, a good quiet sort of body, who, 
as Forrester phrased it, did not dare to say the soul was her 
own, he deputed the whole domestic management of the tavern ; 
wliile he would be gone, nobody could say where or why, for 
weeks and more at a time, away from bar and hostel, in differ- 
ent portions of the country. None ventured to inquire into a 
matter that was still sufficiently mysterious to arouse curiosity ; 
people living with and about him generally entertaining a de- 
gree of respect, amounting almost to vulgar awe, for his person 
and presence, which prevented much inquiry into his doings. 
Some few, however, more hold than the rest, spoke in terms of 
suspicion ; hut the number of this class was inconsiderable, and 
they themselves felt that the risk which they incurred was not 
so unimportant as to permit of their going much out of the way 
to trace the doubtful features in his life. 

As we have already stated, he took his place along with his 
guests ; the bottles and glasses were replenished, the story of 
the pedler again told, and each individual once more busied in 
describing his own exploits. The lawyer, immersed in visions 
of grog and glory, rhapsodized perpetually and clapped liis 
hands. Blundell, drunkenly happy, at every discharge of the 
current humor, made an abortive attempt to chuckle, the inef- 
fectual halloo gurgling away in the abysses of his mighty 
throat ; until, at length, his head settled down supinely upon 
his breast, his eyes were closed, and the hour of his victory had 
gone by ; though, even then, his huge jaws opening at intervals 
for the outward passage of something which by courtesy might 
be considered a laugh, attested the still anxious struggles of the 
inward spirit, battling with the weaknesses of the flesh. 

The example of a leader like Blundell had a most pernicious 
effect upon the uprightness of the greater part of the company. 
Having the sanction of authority, several others, the minor 
spirits it is true, settled dowp under their chairs without a 


THE YANKEE OUTWITS THE LAWYER 95 

struggle. Tlie survivors made some lugubrious efforts at a tri- 
umph over their less stubborn companions, but the laborious 
and husky laugh was but a poor apology for the proper per- 
formance of this feat. Munro, who to his other q[ualities added 
those of a sturdy hon-vivant, together with Forrester, and a few 
who still girt in the lawyer as the prince of the small jest, dis- 
charged their witticisms upon the staggering condition of affairs ; 
not forgetting in their assaults the disputatious civilian himself. 
That worthy, we regret to add, though still unwilling to yield, 
and still striving to retort, had nevertheless suffered considerable 
loss of equilibrium. His speeches were more than ever confused, 
alH it was remarked that his eyes danced about hazily, with a 
most ineffectual expression. He looked about, however, with 
a stupid gaze of self-satisfaction ; but his laugh and language, 
forming a strange and most unseemly coalition, degenerated at 
last into a dolorous sniffle, indicating the rapid departure of the 
few mental and animal holdfasts which had lingered with him 
so long. While thus reduced, his few surviving senses were at 
once called into acute activity by the appearance of a sooty 
little negro, who thrust into his hands a misshapen fold of dirty 
paper, which a near examination made out to take the form of 
a letter. 

“ Why, what the d — 1, d — d sort of fist is this you’ve given 
me, you bird of blackness! where got you this vile scrawl? — 
faugh ! you’ve had it in your jaws, you raven, have you not?” 

The terrified urchin retreated a few paces while answering 
the inquiry. 

“No, mass lawyer — de pedler — da him gib um to me so. 
I bring um straight as he gib um.” 

“The pedler! why, where is he? — what the devil can he 
have to write about ?” was the universal exclamation. 

“ The pedler !” said the lawyer, and his sobriety grew 
strengthened at the thought .of business ; he called to the 
waiter and whispered in his ears — 

“ Hark ye, cuffee ; go bring out the pedler’s horse, saddle 
him with my saddle which lies in the gallery, bring him to the 
tree, and, look ye, make no noise about it, you scoundrel, as 
you value your ears.” 

Ouffee was gone on his mission — and the whole assembly 


96 


GUY IIYERS. 


aroused ly tlie name of the pedler and the mysterious influence 
of the communication upon the lawyer, gathered, with inquiries 
of impatience, around him. Finding him slow, they clamored 
for the contents of the epistle, and the route of the writer — nei- 
ther of which did he seem desirous to communicate. His eva- 
sions and unwillingness were all in vain, and he was at length 
compelled to undertake the perusal of the scrawl ; a task he 
would most gladly have avoided in their presence. He was in 
doubt and fear. What could the pedler have to communicate, 
on paper, which might not have been left over for their inter- 
view ? His mind was troubled, and, pushing the crowd away 
from immediately about him, he tore open the envelope and 
began the perusal — proceeding with a measured gait, the re- 
sult as well of the “ damned cramp hand” as of the still foggy 
intellect and unsettled vision of the reader. But as the charac- 
ters and their signification became more clear and obvious to 
his gaze, his features grew more and more sobered and intelli- 
gent — a blankness overspread his face — his hands trembled, 
and finally, his apprehensions, whatever they might have been, 
having seemingly undergone full confirmation, he crumpled the 
villanous scrawl in his hands, and dashing it to the floor in a rage, 
roared out in quick succession volley after volley of invective 
and denunciation upon the thrice-blasted head of the pedler. 
The provocation must have been great, no doubt, to impart such 
animation at such a time to the man of law ; and the curiosity 
of one of the revellers getting the better of his scruples in such 
matters — if, indeed, scruples of any kind abode in such a sec- 
tion — prompting him to seize upon the epistle thus pregnant 
with mortal matter, in this way the whole secret became public 
property. As, therefore, we shall violate no confidence, and 
shock no decorum, we proceed to read it aloud for the benefit 
of all: — 

‘'Dear Lawyer: I guess I am pretty safe now from the 
regilators, and, saving my trouble of mind, well enough, and 
nothing to complain about. Your animal goes as slick as 

grease, and carried me in no time out of reach of rifle-shot 

so you see it’s only right to thank God, and you, lawyer 
for if you hadn’t lent me the nag, I guess it would have be^tt 


THE YANKEE OUTWITS THE LAWYER. 97 

a sore chance for me in the hands of them savages and beasts 
of prey. 

“ I’ve been thinking, lawyer, as I driv along, about what you 
said to me, and I guess it’s no more than right and reasonable 
I should take the law on ’em ; and so I put the case in your 
hands, to make the most on it ; and seeing that the damages, as 
you say, may be over five hundred dollars, why, I don’t see but 
tlie money is jest as good in my hands as theirs, for so it ought 
to be. The bill of particulars I will send you by post. In the 
neanwhile, you may say, having something to go upon, that the 
whole comes to five hundred and fifty dollars or thereabouts, 
for, with a little calculation and figering, I guess it won’t be 
hard to bring it up to that. This don’t count the vally of the 
cart, for, as I made it myself, it didn’t cost me much ; but, if 
you put it in the bill, which I guess you ought to, put it down 
for twenty dollars more — seeing that, if I can’t trade for one 
somehow, I shall have to give something like that for an- 
other.” 

“And now, lawyr^r, tnere s one thing — I don’t like to be in 
the reach of them ’ere : egixators, and guess ’twouldn’t be alto- 
gether the wisest to stop short of fifteen miles to-night : so, 
therefore, you see, it won t be in my way, no how, to let you 
have your nag, whicn is i main fine one, and goes slick as a 
whistle — pretty much as ' e and the wagon was made for one 
another ; but this, I guess, will be no difference to you, seeing 
that you can pay yourself his vally out of the damages. I’m 
willing to allow you one hundred dollars for him, though he 
a’n’t worth so much, no how ; and the balance of the money you 
;an send to me, or my brother, in the town of Meriden, in the 
state of Connecticut. So no more, dear lawyer, at this writing, 
from 

“ Your very humble sarvant 

“ to command, &c.” 

The dismay of the attorney was only exceeded by the cha 
grin with which he perceived his exposure, and anticipated the 
odium in consequence. He leaped about the hall, among the 
company, in a restless paroxysm — now denouncing the pedler, 
now deprecating their dissatisfaction at finding out the double 

6 


98 


GUY RiVEtlS. 


game which he had been playing. The trick of the runaway 
almost gave him a degree of favor in their eyes, which did not 
find much diminution when Pippin, rushing forth from the 
apartment, encountered a new trial in the horse left him by the 
pedler ; the miserable beast being completely ruined, unable tc 
move a step, and more dead than alive. 


NEW FRIENDS IN STRANGE PLACES. 


m 


CHAPTER VIII. 

>EW FRIENDS IN STRANGE PLACES. 

Rai.ph opened his eyes at a moderately late hour on the en- 
suing morning, and found Forrester in close attendance. He 
felt himself somewhat sore from his bruises in falling, but the 
'wound gave him little concern. Indeed, he was scarcely con- 
scious of it. He had slept well, and was not unwilling to enter 
into the explanatory conversation which the woodman began. 
From him he learned the manner and situation in which he had 
been found, and was furnished with a partial history of his pres- 
ent whereabouts. In return, he gave a particular account of 
the assault made upon him in the wood, and of his escape ; all 
of which, already known to the reader, will call for no additional 
details. In reply to the unscrupulous inquiry of Forrester, the 
youth, with as little hesitation, declared himself to be a native 
of the neighboring state of South Carolina, born in one of its 
middle districts, and now on his way to Tennessee. He con- 
cluded with giving his name. 

“ Colleton, Colleton,” repeated the other, as if reviving some 
recollection of old time — “why, ’squire, I once knew a whole 
family of that name in Carolina. I’m from Carolina myself, you 
must know. There was an old codger — a fine, hearty buck — 
old Ralph Colleton — Colonel Ralph, as they used to call him. 
He did have a power of money, and a smart chance of lands 
and field-niggers ; but they did say he was going behindhand, 
for he didn’t know how to keep what he had. He was always 
buying, and living large ; but that can’t last for ever. I saw 
him first at a muster. I was then just eighteen, and went out 
with the rest, for the first time. Maybe, ’squire, I didn’t take 
' the rag off the bush that day. I belonged to Captain Williams’s 


iod 


GtTT RTVEWI. 


troop, called the ‘ Bush-Whackers.’ We were all fine-looking 
felloAvs, though I say it myself. I was no chicken, T tell you. 
From that day, Mark Forrester wrote himself down ‘ man" And 
well he might, ’squire, and no small one neither. Six feet in 
stocking-foot, sound in wind and limb — could outrun, outjump, 
outwrestle, outfight, and outdo anyhow, any lad of my inches 
in the whole district. There was Tom Foster, that for five long 
years counted himself cock of the walk, and crowed like a 
chicken whenever he came out upon the ground. You never 
saw Tom, I reckon, for he went off to Mississippi after I sow^ed 
him up. He couldn’t stand it any longer, since it was no use, 
I licked him in sich short order : he wasn’t a mouthful. Aiter 
that, the whole ground was mine ; nobody could stand before 
me, ’squire ; though now the case may he different, for Sumter’:, 
a destrict, ’squire, that a’n’t slow at raising game chickens.” 

At the close of this rambling harangue, Mark Forrester, as 
we may now be permitted to call him, looked down upon his 
own person with no small share of complacency. He was still, 
doubtless, all the man he boasted himself to have been ; his 
person, as we have already briefly described it, offering, as well 
from its bulk and well-distributed muscle as from its perfect, 
symmetry, a fine model for the statuary. After the indulgence 
of a few moments in this harmless egotism, he returned to the 
point, as if but now recollected, from which he set out. 

“Well, then. Master Colleton, as I was saying, ’tv^as at this 
same muster that I first saw the ’squire. He was a monstrous 
clever old buck now, I tell you. Why, he thought no more of 
money than if it growed in his plantation — he almost thro wed 
it away for the people to scramble after. That very day, when 
the muster was over, he called all the boys up to Eben Garratt’s 
tavern, and told old Eben to set the right stuff afloat, and put 
the whole score down to him. Maybe old Eben didn’t take 
him at his word. Eben was a cunning chap, quite Yankee-like, 
and would skin his shadow for a saddle-hack, I reckon, if he 
could catch it. I tell you what, when the crop went to town, 
the old ’squire must have had a mighty smart chance to pay ; 
for, whatever, people might say of old Eben, he knew how' to 
calculate from your pocket into his with monstrous sartainty. 
Well, as I was saying, ’squire, I shouldn’t be afraid to go you e 


NEW FRIENDS IN STRANGE PLACES. 101 

bet that old Ralph Colleton is some kin ot your’n. You’re 
both of the same stock, I reckjn.” 

You are right in your conjecture,” replied the youth ; “ the 
person of whom you speak was indeed a near relative of mine 
— he was no other than my father.” 

“There, now — I could have said as much, for you look for 
all the world as if you had come out of his own mouth. ^ There 
is a trick of the eye which I never saw in any but you two ; 
and even if you liad not told me your name, I should have 
made pretty much the same calculation about you. The old 
’squire, if I rightly recollect, was something stiff in his way, 
and some people did say he was proud, and carried himself 
rather high ; but, for my part, I never saw any difference ’twixt 
him and most of our Carolina gentlemen, who, you know, gen- 
erally walk pretty high in the collar, and have no two ways 
about them. For that matter, however, I couldn’t well judge 
then ; I may have been something too young to say, for certain, 
what was what, at that time of my life.” 

“You are not even now so far advanced in years, Mr. For- 
rester, that you speak of your youth as of a season so very re- 
mote. What, I pray, may be your age? We may ask, with- 
out offence, such a question of men : the case where the other 
sex is concerned is, you are aware, something different.” 

The youth seemed studiously desirous of changing the direc- 
tion of the dialogue. 

“ Man or woman, I see, for my part, no harm in the question. 
But do call me Forrester, or Mark Forrester, whichever pleases 
you best, and not mister, as you just now called me. I go by 
no other name. Mister is a great word, and moves people quite 
too far off from one another. I never have any concern with a 
man that I have to mister and sir. I call them ’squire because 
that’s a title the law gives them; and when I speak to you, I 
say ’squire, or Master Colleton. You may be a ’squire your- 
self, but whether you are or are not, it makes no difference, for 
you get the name from your father, who is. Then, ag’in, I call 
you master — because, you see, you are but a youth, and have 
a long run to overtake my years, few as you may think them. 
Besides, master is a friendly word, and comes easy to the tongue. 
I never, for my part, could see the sense in mister, except whep 


GUY RIVERS. 


m 

people g*o out to fight, when it’s necessary to dcT everyt hing 
little the politest; and, then, it smells of long shot and col . 
business, ’squire. ’Tisn’t, to my mind, a good word amonf 
friends.” 

The youth smiled slightly at the distinction drawn with sue’ 
nicety by his companion, between words which he had hith • 
erto been taught to conceive synonymous, or nearly so ; and 
the reasons, such as they were, by which the woodman sustained 
his free use of the one to the utter rejection of the other. He 
did not think it important, however, to make up an issue on th- 
point, though dissenting from the logic of his companion ; and 
contented himself simply with q repetition of the question in 
which it had originated. 

“ Why, I take shame to answer you rightly, ’squire, seeing I 
am no wiser and no better than I am ; but the whole secret of 
the matter lies in the handle of this little hatchet, and this I 
made out of a live-oak sapling some sixteen years ago — Its 
much less worn than I, yet I am twice its age, I reckon.” 

“ You are now then about thirty-two V’ 

“Ay, just thirty-two. It don’t take much calculating to 
make out that. My own schooling, though little enough for a 
large man, is more than enough to keep me from wanting help 
at such easy arithmetic.” 

With the exception of an occasional and desultory remark 
or two, the conversation had reached a close. The gravity 
— the almost haughty melancholy which, at intervals, ap- 
peared the prevailing characteristic of the manners and coun- 
tenance of the youth, served greatly to discourage even the 
blunt freedom of Mark Forrpster, who seemed piqued at length 
by the unsatisfactory issue of all his endeavors to enlist the 
familiarity and confidence of his companion. This Ralph 
soon discovered. He had good sense and feeling enough to 
perceive the necessity of some alteration in his habit, if ho 
desired a better understanding with one whose attendance, at 
the present time, was not only unavoidable but indispensable' — 
one who might be of use, and who was not only willing and 
well-intentioned, but to all appearance honest and harmless, and 
to whom he was already so largely indebted. With an effort, 
therefore, not so much of mind as of mood, he bioke the ice 


NEW FRIENDS IN STRANGE PLACES. 


108 


wliich nis own indifference had suffered to close, and by giving 
a legicimate excuse for the garrulity of his companion, unlocked 
once more the treasurehouse of his good-humor and volubility. 

F: om the dialogue thus recommenced, we are enabled to take 
a fai'-lier glance into the history of Forrester’s early life. He 
was, as f e phrased it, from “ old So. Ca.” pronouncing the name 
of the state in the abridged form of its written contraction. In 
one of the low ^.r districts he still held, in fee, a small but ineffi- 
cient patrimony ; the profits of which were put to the use of a 
young sister, rimes, however, had grown hard, and with the 
impatience and restlessness so peculiar to nearly all classes of 
the people of tha state, Mark set out in pursuit of his fortune 
among strangers. H ^ loved from his childhood all hardy enter- 
prises ; all employments calculated to keep his spirit from slum- 
bering in irksome q' i / m his breast. He had no relish for the 
labors of the plom h, and looked upon the occupation of his 
forefathers as by no means fitted for the spirit which, with little 
besides, they had left him. The warmth, excitability, and rest- 
lessness which were his prevailing features of temper, could not 
bear the slov”^ process of tilling, and cultivating the earth — 
watching the growth and generations of pigs and potatoes, and 
libtening to that favorite music with the staid and regular far- 
mer, the shooting of the corn in the still nights, as it swells 
with a respiring movement, distending the contracted sheaves 
which enclose it. In addition to this antipathy to the pursuits 
of his ancestors, Mark had a decided desire, a restless ambition, 
prompting him to see, and seek, and mingle with the world. He 
was fond, as our readers may have observed already, of his own 
eloquence, and having worn out the patience and forfeited the 
attention of all auditors at home, he was compelled, in order to 
the due appreciation of his faculties, to seek for others less ex- 
perienced abroad. Like wiser and greater men, he, too, had 
been won away, by the desire of rule and reference, from the 
humble quiet of his native fireside ; and if, in after life, he did 
not bitterly repent of the folly, it was because of that light- 
hearted and sanguine temperament which never deserted him 
quite, and supported him in all events and through every vicis- 
situde. He had wandered much after leaving his parental 
home, and was jiow engaged in an cccupation and pursqit 


104 


GUY RIVERS. 


which )ur future pages must develop. Having narrated, in 
his desultory way to his companion, the facts which we have 
condensed, he conceived himself entitled to some share of thaf 
confidence of which he had himself exhibited so fair an exam- 
ple; and the cross-examination which followed did not vary 
very materially from that to which most wayfarers in thic 
region are subjected, and of which, on more than one ''ccasiou, 
they have been heard so vociferously to complain. 

“Well, Master Ralph — unless my eyes greatly miscalculate,, 
you cannot be more than nineteen or twenty at the most ; and 
if one may be so bold, what is it that brings one of your youth 
and connections abroad into this wilderness, among wild men 
and wild beasts, and we gold-hunters, whom men do say are very 
little, if any, better than them V' 

“ Why, as respects your first conjecture, Forrester,’^ returned 
the youth, “ you are by no means out of the way. I am not 
much over twenty, and am free to confess, do not care to be 
.held much older. Touching your further inquiry not to seem 
churlish, but rather to speak frankly and in a like spirit with 
yourself, I am not desirous to rep.eat to others the story that 
has been, perhaps, but learned in part by myself. I do not 
exactly believe that it would promote my plans to submit my 
affairs to the examination of other people; nor do I think that 
any person whomsoever would be very much benefited by the 
knowledge. You seem to have forgotten, however, that I have 
already said that I am journeying to Tennessee.” 

“ Left Carolina for good and all, heh 

“Yes — perhaps for ever. But we will not talk of it.” 

“Well, you’re in a wild world now, ’squire.” 

“ This is no strange region to me, though I have lost my way 
in it. I have passed a season in the county of Gwinnett and 
the neighborhood, with my uncle’s family, when something 
younger, and have passed, twice, journeying between Caroling, 
and Tennessee, at no great distance from this very spot. But 
your service to me, and your Carolina birth, deserves that I 
should be more free in my disclosures ; and to account for the 
sullenness of my temper, which you may regard as something 
inconsistent with our relationship, let me say, that whatever* my 
prospects might have been, and whatever my history may be, J 


NEW FRIENDS IN STRANGE PLACES. 105 

am at this moment altogether indifferent as to the course wliich 
I shall pursne. It matters not very greatly to me whether 1 
take up my abode among the neighboring Cherokees, or, farther 
on, along with them, pursue my fortunes upon the shores of the 
Hed river or the Missouri. I have become, during the last 
few days of my life, rather reckless of human circumstance, 
and, perhaps, more criminally indifferent to the necessities 
of my nature, and my responsibilities to society and myself, 
tlian might well beseem one so youthful, and, as you say, 
with prospects like those which you conjecture, and not eiTO- 
neously, to have been mine. All I can say is, that, when I lost 
my way last evening, my first feeling was one of a melancholy 
satisfaction ; for it seemed to me that destiny itself had deter- 
mined to contribute towards my aim and desire, and to forward 
me freely in the erratic progress, which, in a gloomy mood, 1 
had most desperately and, perhaps, childishly undertaken.” 

There was a stern melancholy in the deep and low utteranc 
— the close compression of lip — the steady, calm eye of the 
youth, that somewhat tended to confirm the almost savage sen- 
timent of despairing indifference to life, which his sentiments 
conveyed; and had the effect of eliciting a larger degree of 
respectful consideration from the somewhat uncouth but really 
well-meaning and kind companion who stood beside him. For- 
rester had good sense enough to perceive that Ralph hac be n 
gently nurtured and deferentially treated — that his pride or 
vanity, or perhaps some nobler emotion, had suffered slight. 
rebuke ; and that it was more than probable this emotir n woiaa 
before long, give place to others, if not of a more roaniy and 
spirited, at least (ff a more subdued and reasonable chat- icter. 
Accordingly, wtLbeut appearing- to attach any import an oo to, or 
even to perceive the melancholy defiance contained in the 
speech of the young in.nn, he confined himself entirely ooa pass 
ing comment upon the facility with which, having his eyes open, 
and the bright sunsliine and green trees fer his guia.s, he ha^ 
suffered himself to lose his way — an incidert excessively lul:- 
crous in the contemplation of one, who, ir his own words, 
could take the tree with the ’possum, the scent with the iio'.md, 
the swamp with the deer, and be in at the death with aH of 
them — for whom the woods had no labyrinth uid th.. ’ ghi no 

5 * 


106 


GUY EIYERS. 


mystery. He laughed heartily at the simplicity of the youth, 
and entered into many details, not so tedious as long, of the 
various hairbreadth escapes, narrow chances, and curious enter- 
prises of his own initiation into the secrets of wood-craft, and 
to the trials and perils of which, in his own probation, his ex- 
perience had necessarily subjected him. At length he con- 
cluded his narrative by seizing i.pon one portion of Ralph’s 
language with an adroitness and ingenuity that might have done 
credit to an older diplomatist ; and went on to invite the latter 
to quarter upon himself for a few weeks at least. 

“ And now Master Colleton, as yoii are rambling, as you say, 
indifferent quite as to what quarter you turn the head of your 
creature — suppose now you take up lodgings with me. I 
have, besides this room, which I only keep for my use of a 
Saturday and Sunday when I come to the village — a snug 
place a few miles off, and there’s room enough, and provisions 
enough, if you’ll only stop a while and take what’s going. 
Plenty of hog and hominy at all times, and we don’t want for 
other and better things, if we please. Come, stay with me for 
a month, or more, if you choose, and when you think to go, I 
can put you on your road at an hour’s warning. In the mean- 
time, I can show you all that’s to be seen. I can show you 
where the gold grows, and may be had for the gathering. 
We’ve snug quarters for the woods, plenty of venison; and, 
as you must be a good shot coming from Carolina, you may 
bring down at day-dawn of a morning a sluggish wild turkey, so 
fat that he will split open the moment he strikes the ground. 
Don’t fight shy, now, ’squire, and we’ll have sport just so long 
as you choose to stay with us.” 

The free and hearty manner of the woodman, who, as he 
concluded his invitation, grasped the hand of the youth warmly 
in his own, spoke quite as earnestly as his language ; and Ralph, 
in part, fell readily into a proposal which promised something 
in the way of diversion. He gave Forrester to understand 
*hat he would probably divide his time for a few days between 
iie tavern and his lodge, which he proposed to visit whenever 
he felt himself perfectly able to manage his steed. He signified 
his acknowledgment of the kindness of his companion with 
something less of hauteu than had hitherto characterized him ; 


NEW FKIENDtt IN tSVUANGE PLACES, 


101 


and, remembering that, on tbe subject of the assault made upon 
him, Forrester had said little, and that too wandering to be 
considered, he again brought the matter up to his consideration, 
and endeavored to find a clue to the persons of the outlaws, 
whom he endeavored to describe. 

On this point, however, he procured but little satisfaction. 
The description which he gave of the individual assailant whom 
alone he had been enabled to distinguish, though still evidently 
under certain disguises, was not sufficient to permit of Forrester’s 
identification. The woodman was at a loss, though evidently 
satisfied that the parties were not unknown to him in some 
other character. As for the Pony Club, he gave its history, 
confirming that already related by the outlaw himself; and 
while avowing his own personal fearlessness on the subject, did 
not withhold his opinion that the members were not to be trifled 
with : ^ 

“And, a word in your ear, ’squire — one half of the people 
you meet with in this quarter know a leetle more of this same 
Pon^ Club than is altogether becoming in honest men. So 
mind that you look about you, right and left, with a sharp eye, 
and be r«ady to let drive with a quick hand. Keep your tor.gu-e 
still, at the same time that you keep your eyes open, for mere’s 
no knowing what devil’s a listening when a poor weak cinner 
talks. The danger’s not in the open daylight, but in the dark. 
There’s none of them that will be apt to square off agin you 
while you’re here ; for they knew that, though we’ve got a 
mighty mixed nest, there’s some honest birds in it There’s a 
few of us here, always ready to see that a man has fair play, and 
that’s a sort of game that a scamp n^ver likes to take a hand 
in- There’s quite enough of us, when a scalp’s in danger, whe 
can fling a knife and use a trigger with the best, and who wo.i t 
wait to be asked twice to a supper of cold steel Only you 
keep cool, and wide awake, and you’ll iiave friends enough al- 
ways within a single whoop. But, good night now. I must go 
and look after our horses. I’ll see you soon — I reckon a leetle 
sooner than you care to see me.’’ 

Ralph Colleton good humoredly assured him that coali not 
be the case, and with friendly gripe of the hand, they p ited. 


108 


GUY RIVEltS 


CHAPTER IX. 

MORE OF THE DRAMATIS PERSONAE. 

In a few days, so much for the proper nursing of Mark For- 
rester, and of the soi-disani medico of the village, Ralph Colle- 
ton was able to make his appearance below, and take his place 
among the hahitu'es of the hotel. His wound, slight at first; 
was fortunate in simple treatment and in his own excellent con- 
stitution. His bruises gave him infinitely more concern, and 
brought him more frequent remembrances of the adventure in 
which they were acquired. A stout frame and an eager spirit, 
impatient of restraint, soon enabled our young traveller to con- 
quer much of the pain and inconvenience which his hurts gave 
him, provin ' how much the good condition of the physical man 
depends upon the will. He lifted himself about in five days as 
erectly as if nothing had occurred, and was just as ready for 
supper, as if he had never once known the loss of appetite. 
Still he was tolerably prudent and did not task nature too un- 
reasonably. His exercises were duly moderated, so as not to 
irritate anew his injuries. Forrester was a rigid disciplinarian, 
and it was only on the fifth day after his arrival, and after re- 
peated entreaties of his patient, in all of which he showed him- 
self sufficiently impaiitnU that the honest woodman permitted 
him to descend to the dinner-table of the inn, in compliance with 
the clamorous warning of the huge bell which stood at the en- 
Q’ance. 

The company at the dinner-table was somewhat less numer- 
ous than that assembled in the great hall at the trial of the 
pedler. Many of the persons then present were not residents, 
but visiters in the village from the neighboring country. They 
had congregated there, as was usually the case, on each Satur* 


MORE OF THE DRAMATIS PERSONS. 


109 


day of the week, with the view not less to the procuring of 
their necessaries, than the enjoyment of good company. Hav- 
ing atteuied in the first place to the ostensible objects of their 
visit, the village tavern, in the usual phrase, “ brought them 
up and in social, yet wild carousal, they commonly spent the 
residue of the day. It was in this way that they met their ac- 
quaintance — found society, and obtained the news; objects of 
primary importance, at all times, with a people whose insulated 
positions, removed from the busy riart and the stirring crowd, 
left them no alternative but to do this or rust altogether. The 
regular lodgers of the tavern were not numerous therefore, and 
consisted in the main of those laborers in the diggings who had 
not yet acquired the means of establishing households of their 
own. 

There was little form or ceremony in the proceedings of the 
repast. Colleton was introduced by a few words from the 
landlord to the landlady, Mrs. Dorothy Munro, and to a young 
girl, her niece, who sat beside her. It does not need that we 
say much in regard to the former — she interferes with no heart 
in our story ; but Lucy, the niece, may not be overlooked so 
casually. She has not only attractions in herself which claim 
our notice, but occupies no minor interest in the story we pro- 
pose to narrate. Her figure was finely formed, slight and deli- 
cate, but neither diminutive nor feeble — of fair proportion 
symmetry, aud an ease and grace of carriage and manner be 
longing to a far more refined social organization than that ii 
which we find her. But this is easily accounted for; and the 
progress of our tale will save us the trouble of dwelling farthe: 
upon it now. Her skin, though slightly tinged by the sun, was 
beautifully smooth and fair. Her features might not be hell 
regular ; perhaps not exactly such as in a critical examination 
we should call or c«)nsider handsome ; but they were attractive 
nevertheless, strongly marked, and well defined. Her eyes 
were darkly blue ; not languishingly so, but on the contrary 
rather lively and intelligent in their accustomed expression. 
Her mouth, exquisitely chiselled, and colored by the deepest 
blushes of the rose, had a seductive persuasiveness about it that 
might readily win one’s own to some unconscious liberties j 
whih) the natural positi i of the lips, leaving them sligbtljr 


no 


GUY RIVERS. 


parted, gave to tlie moutli an added attraction in tlie double 
range which was displayed beneath of pearl-like and well -formed 
teeth ; her hair was unconfined, but short ; and rendered the 
expression of her features more youthful and girl-like than 
might have been the result of its formal arrangement — it was 
beautifully glossy, and of a dark brown Color. 

Her demeanor was that of maidenly reserve, and a ladylike 
dignity, a quiet serenity, approaching— at periods, whe;i any 
remark calculated to infringe in the slightest degree upon those 
precincts with which feminine delicacy and form have guarded 
its possessor — a stern severity of glance, approving her a crea- 
ture taught in the true school of propriety, and chastened with 
a spirit that slept not on a watch, always of perilous exposure 
in one so young and of her sex. On more than one occasion did 
Ilalph, in the course of the dinner, remark the indignant fire 
flashing from her intelligent eye, when the rude speech of some 
untaught boor assailed a sense finely- wrought to appreciate the 
proper boundaries to the always adventurous footstep of un- 
bridled licentiousness. The youth felt assured, from these oc- 
casional glimpses, that her education had been derived from a 
different influence, and that her spirit deeply felt and deplored 
the humiliation of her present condition and abode. 

The dinner-table, to which we now come, and which two or 
three negroes have been busily employed in cumbering with 
weli^filled plates and dishes, was most plentifully furnished; 
though but few of its contents could properly be classed under 
tfiO head of delicacies. There were eggs and ham, hot biscuits, 
nommony, milk, marmalade, venison, Jor-nny, or journey cakes, 
d'A dried fruits stew..d. These, v/ith the preparatory soup, 
iV cmed the chief components of the x ^past. Everything was 
served up in a style of neatness and cleanliness, that, after all, 
wa-s perhaps the best of all possible recommendations to the 
feast, and Ralph soon found himself quite as busily emphyed 
as was consistent with prudence, in the d:.struction and over- 
throw of the tower of biscuits, the pile of eggs, and such other 
n the idibles around him as were le{.st likely to prove injurious 
to ms debilitated system. 

OL'he table was not large, and the seats were soon occupied. 
Villager after villager had made his appearance and taken hw 


Ill 


MORE OP THE DRAMATIS PERSONAE. 

place withont calling for observation ; and, indeed, so busily 
were all employed, that he who should have made his entree at 
such a time with an emphasis commanding notice, might, not 
without reason, have been set down as truly and indefensibly 
impertinent. So might one have thought, not employed in like 
manner, and simply surveying the prospect. 

Forrester alone contrived to he less selfish than those about 
him, and our hero found his attentions at times rather trouble- 
some. Whatever in the estimation of the woodman seemed 
attractive, he studiously t i.ust into the youth’s plate, pressing 
him to eat Chancing, at 'inc of these peiiods of polite provis- 
ion on the part of his friend, to direct his glance to the opposite 
extreme o^ the table, he was struck with the appearance of a 
man whose eyes were fixed upon himself with an expression 
which he could not comprehend and did not relish. The look 
of this man was naturally of a sinister kind, but now his eyes 
wore a malignant aspect, which not only aroused the youth’s 
indignant retort through the same medium, but struck him as 
indicating a feeling of hatred to himself of a most singular char 
acter. Meeting the look of the youth, the stranger rose hurried 
ly and left the table, but still lingered in the apartment. Ralph 
was struck with his features, which it appeared to him he had 
seen before, but as the person wore around his cheeks, encom- 
passing his head, a thick handkerchief, it was impossible for 
him to decide well upon them. He turned to Forrester, who 
was busily intent upon the dissection of a chicken, and in a lov/ 
tone inquired the name of the stranger. The woodman looked 
up and replied — 

“ Who that % — that’s Guy Rivers ; though what he’s got his 
head tied up for, I can’t say. I’ll ask him and with the word, 
he did so. 

In answer to the question. Rivers explained his bandaging 
by charging his jaws to have caught cold rather against his 
will, and to have swelled somewhat in consequence. While 
making this reply, Ralph again caught his glance, still cuiious- 
ly fixed upon himself, with an expression which again provoked 
his surprise, and occasioned a gathering sternness in the look 
of fiery indignation which he sent back in return. 

Rivers, immediately after this by-play, left the apartment 


112 


GtJY RIVEES. 


The eye of Ralph changing its direction, beheld that of the 
young maiden observing him closely, with an expression of 
countenance so anxious, that he felt persuaded she must have 
beheld the mute intercourse, if so we may call it, between him- 
self and the person whose conduct had so ruffled him. The 
color had fled from her cheek, and there was something of 
warning in her gaze. The polish and propriety which had 
distinguished her manners so far as he had seen, were so differ- 
ent from anything that he had been led to expect, and remind- 
ed him so strongly of another region, that, rising from the table, 
he approached the place where she sat, took a chair beside her, 
and with a gentleness and ease, the due result of his own edu- 
cation and of the world he had lived in, commenced a conversa- 
tion with her, and was pleased to find himself encountered by a 
modest freedom of opinion, a grace of thought, and a general 
intelligence, which promised him better company than he had 
looked for. The villagers had now left the apartment, all but 
Forrester ; who, following Ralph’s example, tobk up a seat be- 
side him, and sat a pleased listener to a dialogue, in which the 
intellectual charm was strong enough, except at very occasional 
periods, to prevent him from contributing much. The old lady 
i^at silently by. She was a trembling, timid body, thin, pale, 
and emaciated, who appeared to have suffered much, and cer- 
tainly stood in as much awe of the man whose name she bore as 
it was well fitting in such a relationship to permit. She said as 
little as Forrester, but seemed equally well pleased with the at- 
tentions and the conversation of the youth. 

“ Find you not this place lonesome. Miss Munro ? You have 
been tised, or I mistake much, to a more cheering, a more civil- 
ized region.” 

“I have, sir; and sometimes I repine — not so much at the 
world I live in, as for the world I have lost. Had I those about 
me with whom my earlier years were passed, the lonely situa- 
tion would trouble me slightly.’ 

She uttered these words with a sorrowful voice, and the 
moisture gathering in her eyes, gave them additional bright- 
ness. The youth, after some commonplace remark upon the 
<^ast difference between moral and physical privations, went 
on — 


MORE OP THE DRAMATIS PERSONAE. 


113 


“ PerLaps, Miss Munro, with a true knowledge of all the con- 
ditions of life, there may he thought little philosophy in the 
tears we shed at such privations. The fortune that is unavoid- 
able, however, I have always found the more deplorable for that 
very reason. I shall have to watch well, that I too he not sur- 
prised with regrets of a like nature with your own, since I find 
myself constantly ret urriiig, in thought, to a world which per- 
haps I shall have little more to do with.” 

Rising from her seat, and leaving the room as she spoke, with 
a smile of studied gay ety upon her countenance, full also of ear-, 
nestness and a siguificanc e of manner that awakened surprise in 
the person addressed, the maiden replied — 

“ Let me suggest, sir, that you observe well the world you are 
in ; and do not forget, in recurring to that which you leave, that, 
while deploring the loss of friends in the one, you may be uncon- 
scious of the enemies which surround you in the other. Perhaps, 
sir, you will find my philosophy in this particular the most use- 
ful, if not the most agreeable.” 

Wondering at lier language, which, though of general remark, 
and fairly deducible from the conversation, he could not avoid 
referring to some peculiar origin, the youth rose, and bowed 
with respectful courtesy as she retired. His eye followed her 
form for an instant, while his meditations momentarily wrapped 
themselves up more and more in inextricable mysteries, from 
which his utmost ingenuity of thought failed entirely to disen- 
tangle him. In a maze of conjecture he passed from the room in- 
to the passage adjoining, and, taking advantage of its long range, 
promenaded wi+h steps, and in a spirit, equally moody and uncer- 
tain. In a little time he was joined by Forrester, who seemed 
solicitous to d’vert his mind and relieve his melancholy, by de- 
scribing the country round, the pursuits, characters, and condi- 
tions of the people- • the habits of the miners, and the produc- 
tiveness of their employ, in a manner inartificial and modest, 
and sometimes highly entertaining. 

While engaged in this way, the eye of Ralph caught the look 
of Rivers, again fixed upon him from the doorway leading into 
the great hall ; and without a moment’s hesitation* with impetuous 
step, he advanced towards him, determined on some explanation 
of that curious interest which had become offensive ; but when 


114 


GUY RIVERS. 


lie approaclied liim with tins object tlie latter hastily left the 
passage. 

Taking Forrester’s arm, Ralph also left the house, in the 
hope to encounter this troublesome person again. But failing 
in this, they proceeded to examine the village, or such portions 
of it as might be surveyed without too much fatigue to the 
wounded man — whose hurts, though superficial, might by im- 
prudence become troublesome. They rambled till the sun went 
down, and at length returned to the tavern. 

This building, as we have elsewhere said, was of the very 
humblest description, calculated, it would seem, rather for a 
temporary and occasional than a lasting shelter. Its architec- 
ture, compared with that even of the surrounding log-houses of 
the country generally, was excessively rude ; its parts were 
out of all proportion, fitted seemingly by an eye the most indif- 
ferent, and certainly without any, the most distant regard, to 
square and compass. It consisted of two stories, the upper be- 
ing assigned to the sleeping apartments. Each floor contained 
four rooms, accessible all, independently of one another, by en- 
trances from a great passage, running both above and below, 
dirough the centre of the structure. In addition to the main 
building, a shed in the rear of the main work afforded four other 
apartments, rather more closely constructed, and in somewhat 
better finish than the rest of the structure : these were in the 
occupation of the family exclusively. The logs, in this work, 
were barbarously uneven, and hewn only to a degree barely 
sufficient to permit of a tolerable level when placed one upon 
the other. Morticed together at the ends, so very loosely had 
the work been done, that a timid observer, and one not accus- 
tomed to the survey of such fabrics, might entertain many mis- 
givings of its security during one of those severe hurricanes 
which, in some seasons of the year, so dreadfully desolate the 
southern and southwestern country. Chimneys of clay and 
stone intermixed, of the rudest fashion, projected from the two 
ends of the building, threatening, with the toppling aspect 
which they wore, the careless wayfarer, and leaving it some- 
thing more than doubtful whether the oblique and outward 
direction which they took, was not the result of a wise precau- 
tiOil figainst a degtCc of contiguity with the fabric they were 


MORE OF THE DRAMATIS PERSON-ffi. 


11 " 


meant to warn, wliicli, from tLe liberal £rep. of tbe pine wc.ds, 
might have proved unfavorable to the protracted existence of 
either. 

The interior of the building aptly accorded with its outline. 
It was unceiled, and the winds were only excluded from access 
through the interstices between the remotely-allied logs, by the 
free use of the soft clay easily attainable in all that range of 
country. The light on each side of the building was received 
through a few small windows, one of which only was allotted 
to each apai’tinent, and this was generally found to possess as 
many modes of fastening as the jail opposite — a precaution re- 
ferable to the great dread of the Indian outrages, and which 
their near neighborhood and irresponsible and vicious habits 
were well calculated to inspire. The furniture of the hotel am- 
ply accorded with all its other features. A single large and two 
small tables ; a few old oaken chairs, of domestic manufacture, 
with bottoms made of ox or deer skin, tightly drawn over the 
seat, and either tied below with small cords or tacked upon the 
sides ; a broken mirror, that stood ostentatiously over the man- 
tel, surmounted in turn by a well-smoked picture of the Wash- 
ington family in a tarnished gilt frame — asserting the Ameri- 
canism of the proprietor and place — completed the contents of 
the great hall, and were a fair specimen of what might be found 
in all the other apartments. The tavern itself, in reference to 
the obvious pursuit of many of those who made it their home, 
was entitled “ The Golden Egg” — a title made sufficiently no- 
torious to the spectator, from a huge signboard, elevated some 
eight or ten feet above the building itself, bearing upon a light- 
blue ground a monstrous egg of the deepest yellow, the effect 
of which was duly heightened by a strong and thick shading of 
sable all round it — the artist, in this way, calculating no doubt 
to afford the object so encircled its legitimate relief. Lest, how- 
ever, his design in the painting itself should be at all question- 
able, he had taken the wise precaution of si. owing what was 
meant by printing the words “ Golden Egg ” in huge Roman 
letters, beneath it ; these, in turn, being placed above another 
inscription, promising “ Entertainment for man and horse.” 

But the night had now closed in, and coffee was in progress. 
Ralph took his seat with the rest of the lodgers, though without 


116 


GUY RIVERS. 


partaking of the feast. Rivers did not make his appearance^ 
much to the chagrin of the youth, who was excessively desirous 
to account for the cmdous observance of this man. He had 
some notion, besides, that the former was not utterly unknown 
to him ; for, though unable to identify him with any one recol- 
lection, his features (what could be seen of them) were certainly 
not unfamiliar. After supper, requesting Forrester’s company 
his chamber, he left the company — not, however, without a 
few moments’ chat with Lucy Munro and her aunt, conducted 
with some spirit by the former, and seemingly to the satisfaction 
of all. As they left the room, Ralph spoke : — 

“ I am not now disposed for sleep, Forrester, and, if you 
please, I should be glad to hear further about your village and 
the country at large. Something, too, I would like to know of 
this man Rivers, whose face strikes me as one that I should 
know, and whose eyes have been hauntiRg me to-day rather 
more frequently than I altogether like, or shall be willing to 
submit to. Give me an hour, then, if not fatigued, in my cham 
ber, and we will talk over these matters together.” 

“ Well, ’squire, that’s just what pleases me now. I like good 
company, and ’twill be more satisfaction to me, I reckon, than 
to you As for fatigue, that’s out of the question. Somehow 
or other, I never feel fatigued when I’ve got somebody to talk 
to.’ 

With such a disposition, I wonder, Forrester, you have not 
been more intimate with the young lady of the house. Miss 
Lucy seems quite an intelligent girl, well-behaved, and vir 
tuous ” 

“ Why. ’squire, she is all that ; but, though modest and not 
prouQ, as you may see, yet she’s a little above my mark. She 
is book-learned, and i am not ; and she paints, and is a mush 
cian too and has all the accomplishments. She was an only 
child, and her father was quite another sort of person from his 
brother who now has her in management.” 

“ She is an ovphan, then?” 

“ Yes, poor girl, and she feels pretty clearly that this isn’t 
the sort of country in which she has a right to live. I like her 
very well, but, as I say, she’s a little above me ; and, besides, 
you must knoWj ’squire, I’m rather fixed in another quarter.” 


MOHE OP THE DRAMATIS PERSONS. lit 

They had now reached the chamber of our hero, and the sei*' 
rant having placed tlie light and retired, the parties took seats, 
and the conversation recommenced. 

“ T know not how it is, Forrester,” said the youth, “ but there 
are few men whose looks I so little like, and whom I would 
more willingly avoid, than that man Rivers. What he is I 
know not — but I suspect him of mischief I may be doing 
wi’oug to the man, and injustice to his character ; but, really, 
liis eye strikes me as singularly malicious, almost murderous ; 
and though not apt to shrink from men at any time, it provoked 
something of a shudder to-day when it met my own. He may 
be, and perhaps you may be able to say, whether he is a wor- 
thy person or not ; for my part, I shpuld only regard him as 
one to be watched jealously and carefully avoided. There is 
something creepingly malignant in the look which shoots out 
from his glance, like that of the rattlesnake, when coiled and 
partially concealed in the brake. When I looked upon his eye, 
as it somewhat impertinently singled me out for observation, I 
almost felt disposed to lift my heel as if the venomous reptile 
were crawling under it.” 

“ You are not the only one, ’squire, that’s afraid of Guy 
Rivers.” 

“ Afraid of him ! you mistake me, Forrester ; I fear no man,” 
replied the youth, somewhat hastily interrupting the woodman. 

T am not apt to fear, and certainly have no such feeling in 
regard to this person. I distrust, and would avoid him, merely 
as one who, while possessing none of the beauty, may yet have 
many of the propensities and some of the poison of the snake to 
which I likened him.” 

“ Well, ’squire, I didn’t use the right word, that’s certain, 
when I said afraid, you see; because ’tan’t in Carolina and 
Georgia, and hereabouts, that men are apt to get frightened at 
trifles. But, as you say, Guy Rivers is not the right kind of 
man, and everybody here knows it, and keeps clear of him. 
None cares to say much to him, except when it’s a matter of 
necessity, and then they say as little as may be. Nobody 
knows much about him — he is here to-day and gone to-morrov/ 
— and we never see much of him except when there’s some 
mischief afoot. He is thick with IVIunro, and they keep to 


118 


GUY RIVERS. 


getlier at all times, I believe. He lias money, and knows bow 
to spend it. Where he gets it is quite another thing.^’ 

“ What can he the source of the intimacy between himself 
and Munro ? Is he interested in the hotel 

“ Why, I can’t say for that, but I think not. The fact is, 
the tavern is nothing to Munro ; he don’t care a straw about it, 
and some among us do whisper that he only keeps it a-going aa 
a kind of cover for other practices. There’s no. doiibt that they 
drive some trade together, though what it is I can’t say, and 
never gave myself much trouble to inquire. I can tell you 
what, though, there’s no doubt on my mind that he’s trying to 
get Miss Lucy — they say he’s fond of her — but I know for 
myself she hates and despises him, and don’t stop to let him 
see it.” 

“ Slie will not have him, then, you think 
“ I know she won’t if she can help it. But, poor girl, what 
can she do ? She’s at the mercy, as you may see, of Munro, 
who is her father’s brother; and he don’t care a straw for her 
likes or dislikes. If he says the word, I reckon she can have 
nothing to say which will help her out of the difficulty. I’m 
sure he won’t regard prayers, or tears, or any of her objec- 
tions.” 

“ It’s a sad misfortune to be forced into connection with one 
in whom we may not confide — whom we can have no sympa- 
thy with — whom we can not love !” 

“ ’Tis so, ’squire ; and that’s just her case, and she hates to 
see the very face of him, and avoids him whenever she can do 
so without giving ofiTence to her uncle, who, they say, has threat- 
ened her bitterly about the scornful treatment which she shows 
him. It’s a wonder to me how any person, man or woman, can 
do otherwise than despise tlie fellow ; for, look you, ’squire, 
over and above his sulky, sour looks, and his haughty conduct, 
would you believe it, he won’t drink himself, yet he’s always 
for getting other people drunk. But that’s not all : he’s a quar- 
relsome, spiteful, sore-headed chap, that won’t do as other peo- 
ple. He never laughs heartily like a man, but always in a half- 
sniffling sort of manner ihat actually makes me sick at my stom- 
ach. Then, he never plays and makes merry along with us, 
and, if he does, harm is a' ways" sure, somehow or other, to come 


MORE OP THF DRAMATIS PERSONS. 


119 


of it. When other people dance and frolic, he stands apart, 
with scorn in his face, and his black brows gathering clouds in 
such a way, that he would put a stop to all sport if people were 
only fools enough to mind him. For my part, I take care to 
have just as little to say to him as possible, and he to me, in- 
deed ; for he knows me just as well as I know him : and he 
knows, too, that if he only dared to crook his finger, I’m just 
the man that would mount him on the spot.” 

Ralph could not exactly comprehend the force of some of the 
objections urged by his companion to the character of Rivers : 
those, in particular, which described his aversion to the sports 
common to the people, only indicated a severer temper of mind 
and habit, and, though rather in bad tast^ were certainly not 
criminal. Still there was enough to confirm his own hastily- 
formed suspicions of this person, and to determine him more 
fully upon a circumspect habit while in his neighborhood. He 
saw that his dislike and doubt were fully partaken of by those 
who, ft-om circumstance and not choice, were his associates ; 
and felt satisfied — though, as we have seen, without the knowl- 
edge of any one particular wdiich might afford a reasonable war- 
ranty for his antipathy — that a feeling so general as Forrester 
described- it could not be altogether without foundation. He 
felt assured, by an innate prediction of his own spirit, unuttered 
to his companion, that, at some period, he should find his antici- 
pations of this man’s guilt fully realized ; though, at that mo- 
ment, he did not dream that he himself, in becoming his victim, 
should furnish to his own mind an almost irrefutable argument 
in support of that incoherent notion of relative sympathies and 
antipathies to which he had already, seemingly, given him- 
self up. 

The dialogue, now diverted to other topics, was not much 
longer protracted. The hour gi’ew late, and the shutting up of 
the house, and the retiring of the family below, warned I or- 
rester of the propriety of making his own retreat to the little 
cabin in which he lodged. He shook Ralph’s hand warmly, 
and, promising to see him at an early hour of the morning, took 
his departure. A degree of intimacy, rather inconsistent with 
our youth’s wonted haughtiness of habit, had sprung up between 
himself and the woodman — the result, doubtless, on the part of 


120 


GUY RIVERS. 

tlie formor, of tlie loneliness and to him novel character of hia 
situation. He was cheerless and melancholy, and the associa- 
tion of a warm, well-meaning spirit had something consolatory 
in it. He thought too, and correctly, that, in the mind and 
character of Forrester, he discovered a large degree of sturdy, 
manly simplicity, and a genuine honesty — colored deeply with 
prejudices' and without much polish, it is true, hut highly sus- 
ceptible of improvement, and by no means stubborn or unrea- 
sonable in their retention. He could not but esteem the pos- 
sessor of such characteristics, particularly when shown in such 
broad contrast with those of his associates ; and, without any 
other assurance of their possession by Forrester than the sym- 
pathies already referred to, he was not unwilling to recognise 
their existence in his person. That he came from the same 
part of the world with himself may also have had its effect — 
the more particularly, indeed, as the pride of birthplace was 
evidently a consideration with the woodman, and the praises of 
Carolina were rung, along with his own, in every variety of 
change through almost all his speeches. 

The youth sat musing for some time after the departure of 
Forrester. He was evidently employed in chewing the cud of 
sweet and bitter thought, and referring to memories deeply 
imbued with the closely-associated taste of both these extremes. 
After a while, the weakness of heart got seemingly the mastery, 
long battled with ; and tearing open his vest, he displayed the 
massive gold chain circling his bosom in repeated folds, upon 
which hung the small locket containing Edith’s and his own 
miniature. Looking over his shoulder, as he gazed upon it, we 
are enabled to see the fair features of that sweet young girl, 
just entering her womanhood — her rich, brown, streaming hair, 
the cheek delicately pale, yet enlivened with a southern fire, 
that seems not improperly borrowed from the warm eyes that 
glisten above it. The ringlets gather in amorous clusters upon 
her shoulder, and half obscure a neck and bosom of the purest 
and most polished ivory. The artist had caught from his sub- 
ject something of inspiration, and the rounded bust seemed to 
heave before the sight, as if impregnated with the subtlest and 
sweetest life. The youth carried the semblance to his lips, and 
muttered words of love and reproach so strangely intermingled 


MORE OP THE I;IiAMATIS PERSONS. 


121 


and in unison, that, could she have heard to whom they were 
seemingly addressed, it might have been difficult to have deter- 
mined the difference of signification between them. Gazing 
upon it long, and in silence, a large hut solitary tear gathered 
in his eye, and finally finding its way through his fingers, rested 
upon the lovely features that appeared never heretofore to have 
been conscious of a cloud. As if there had been something of 
impiety and pollution in this blot upon so fair an outline, he 
hastily brushed the tear away ; then pressing the features again 
to his lips, he hurried the jewelled token again into his bosom, 
and prepared himself for those slumbers upon which we foitear 
longer to intrude. 


6 


122 


GUY mVERF. 


CHAPTER X 

THE BLACK DOG. 

While this brief scene was in progress in the chamber 
Ralph, another, not less full of interest to that person, was 
passing in the neighborhood of the village-tavern ; and, as this 
portion of our narrative yields some light which must tend 
greatly to our own, and the instruction of the reader, we pro- 
pose briefly to record it. It will be remembered, that, in the 
chapter preceding, we found the attention of the youth forcibly 
^ittracted toward one Guy Rivers — an attention, the result of 
various influences, which produced in the mind* of the youth a 
degree of antipathy toward that person for which he himself 
could not, nor did we seek to account. 

It appears that Ralph was not less the subject of considera- 
tion with the individual in question. We have seen the degi’ce 
and kind of espionage which the former had felt at one time 
disposed to resent ; and how he was defeated in his design by 
the sudden withdrawal of the obnoxious presence. On his 
departure with Forrester from the gallery, Rivjers reappeared 
— his manner that of doubt and excitement; and, after hurry- 
ing for a while with uncertain steps up and down the apartment, 
(le passed hastily into the adjoining hall, where the landlord sat 
smoking, drinking, and expatiating at large with his guests. 
Whispering something in his ear, the latter rose, and the two 
proceeded into the adjoining copse, at a point as remote as pos- 
sible from hearing, when the explanation of this mysterious 
caution was opened by Rivers. 

“Well, Munro, we are like to have fine work with your 
accursed and blundering good-nature. Why did you not refuse 
lodgings to this youngster ? Are you ignorant who he is 1 Do 
you not know him V 


THE BLACK DOG. 


12S 


“Know him? — no, I know nothing about liim. He seems a 
clever, good-looking lad, and I see no harm in him. What is it 
tViglitens you ?” was the reply and inquiry of tlie landlord. 

“ Nothing frightens me, as you know by this time, or should 
know at least. But, if you know not the young fellow himself 
you should certainly not be at a loss to know the creature ho 
rides ; for it is not long since your heart was greatly taken with 
him. He is the youth we set upon at the Catcheta pass, where 
your backwardness and my forwardness got me this badge — it 
has not yet ceased to bleed — the marks of which promise fairly 
to last me to my gi’ave.” 

As he spoke he raised the handkerchief which bound his 
cheeks, and exposed to view a deep gash, not of a serious 
character indeed, but which, as the speaker asserted, would 
most probably result in a mark which would last him his life. 
The exposure of the face confirms the first and unfavorable 
impression which we have already received from his appear- 
ance, and all that we have any occasion now to add in this 
rcs2)ect will be simply, that, though not beyond the prime of 
life, there were ages of guilt, of vexed and vexatious strife, un- 
regulated pride, without aim or elevation, a lurking malignity, 
and hopeless discontent — all embodied in the fiendish and 
fierce expression which that single glimpse developed to uhe 
spectator. He went on — 

“ Had it been your lot to be in my place, I should not now ♦ 
have to tell you who he is ; nor should we have had any appre- 
hensions of his crossing our path again. But so it is. You are 
always the last to your place; — had you kept your appoint- 
ment, we should have had no difficulty, and I should have 
escaped the mortification of being foiled by a mere stripling, 
and almost stricken to death by the heel of his horse.” 

“ And all your own fault and folly, Guy. What business had 
you to advance upon the fellow, as you did, before everything 
was ready, and when we could have brought him, without any 
risk whatever, into the snare, from which nothing could have 
got him out ? But no ! You must be at your old tricks of the 
law — you must make speeches before you cut purses, as was 
your practice when I first knew you at Gwinnett county-court; 
a practice which you seem not able to get over. You have got 


124 


GtJY RIVERS. 


into such a trick of making fun of people, tliat, for the life of 
me, I can’t be sorry that the lad has turned the tables so hand- 
somely upon you.” 

“You would no doubt have enjoyed the scene with far more 
satisfaction, had the fellow’s shot taken its full effect on my 
skull — since, besidies the failure of our object, you have such 
cause of merriment in what has been done. If I did go some^ 
thing too much ahead in the matter, it is but simple justice to 
say you were quite as much aback.” 

“Perhaps so, Guy; but the fact is, I was right and you 
wrong, and the thing’s beyond dispute. This lesson, though a 
rough one, will do you service ; and a few more such will per- 
haps cure you of that vile trick you have of spoiling not only 
your own, but the sport of others, by running your head into 
unnecessary danger ; and since this youth, who got out of the 
scrape so handsomely, has beat you at your own game, it may 
cure you of that cursed itch for tongue-trifling, upon which you 
60 much pride yourself. ’Twould have done, and it did very 
well, at the county sessions, in getting men out of the wood ; 
but as you have commenced a new business entirely, it’s but 
well to leave off the old, particularly as it’s now your policy to 
^et them into it.” 

“ I shall talk as I please, Munro, and see not why, and care 
not whether, my talk offends you or not. I parleyed with the 
^ youth only to keep him in play until your plans could be put 
in operation.” 

“Very good — that was all very well, Guy — and had you 
kept to your intention, the thing would have done. But he 
replied smartly to your speeches, and your pride and vanity 
got to work. You must answer smartly and sarcastically in 
turn, and you see what’s come of it. You forgot the knave in 
the wit ; and the mistake was incurable. Why tell him that 
yon wanted to pick his pocket, and perhaps cut his throat 1” 

“ That was a blunder, I grant ; but the fact is, I entirely mis 
took the man. Besides, I had a reason for so doing, which it is 
not necessary to speak about now.” 

“ Oh, ay — it wouldn’t be lawyer-like, if you hadn’t a reason 
for everything, however unreasonable,” was the retort. 

** Perhaps not, Munro ; but this is not the matter now. Oui 


THE BLACK DOG. 


125 


present object must be to put this youth out of the way. We 
must silence suspicion, for, though we are pretty much beyond 
the operation of law in this region, yet now and then a sheriff’s 
officer takes off some of the club ; and, as I think it is always 
more pleasant to be out of the halter than in it, I am clear for- 
making the thing certain in the only practicable way.” 

“ But, are you sure that he is the man 1 I should know his 
horse, and shall look to him, for he’s a fine creature, and I 
should like to secure him ; which I think will be the case,- if 
you are not dreaming as usual.” 

“ I am sure — I do not mistake.” 

“Well, I’m not; and I should like to hear what it is you 
know him by ?” 

A deeper and more malignant expression overspread the face 
of Rivers, as, with a voice in which his thought vainly struggled 
for mastery with a vexed spirit, he replied : — 

“ What have I to know him by ? you ask. I know him by 
many things — and when I told you I had my reason for talk 
ing with him as I did, I might have added that he was known 
to me, and fixed in my lasting memory, by wrongs and injuries 
before. But there is enough in this for recollection,” pointing 
again to his cheek — “this carries with it answer sufficient. 
You may value a clear face slightly, having known none other 
than a blotted one since you have known your own, but I have 
a different feeling in this. He has written himself here, and 
the damned writing is perpetually and legibly before my eyes. 
He has put a brand, a Cain-like, accursed brand upon my face, 
the language of which can not be hidden from men ; and yet 
you ask me if I know the execiitioner ? Can I forget him ? If 
you think so, Munro, you know little of Guy Rivers.” 

The violence of his manner as he spoke well accorded with 
the spirit of what he said. The landlord, with much coolness 
and precision, replied : — 

“ I confess I do know but little of him, and have yet much to 
learn. If you have so little temper in your speech, I have cho- 
sen you badly as a confederate in employments which require so 
much of that quality. This gash, which, when healed, will bo 
scarcely perceptible, you speak of with all the mortification of 
a young girl, to whom, indeed, such would be an awful injury 


126 


GUY RIVERS. 


How long is it, Guy, since you have become so particularly 
solicitous of beauty, so proud of your face and features 

“ You will spare your sarcasm for another season, Munro, if 
you would not have strife. I am not now in the mood to listen 
to mucL, even from you, in the way of sneer or censure. Per- 
haps, I am a child in this, but I can not be otherwise. Besides, 
I discover in this youth the person of one to whom I owe much 
in the growth of this very hell-heart, which embitters every- 
thing about and within me. Of this, at another time, you shall 
hear more. Enough that I know this boy — that it is more 
than probable he knows me, and may bring us into difficulty — 
that I hate him, and will not rest satisfied until we are secure, 
and I have my revenge.” 

“Well, well, be not impatient, nor angiy. Although I still 
doubt that the youth in the house is your late opponent, you may 
have suffered wrong at his hands, and you may be right in your 
conjecture.” 

“ I am right — I do not conjecture. I do not so readily mis- 
take my man, and I was quite too near him on that occasion 
not to see every feature of that face, which, at another and an 
earlier day, could come between me and my dearest joys — but, 
why speak I of this ? I know him : not to remember would be 
to forget that I am here ; and that he was a part of that very 
influence which made me league, Munro, with such as you, and 
become a creature of, and a companion with, men whom even 
now I despise. I shall not soon forget his stern and haughty 
smile of scorn — his proud bearing — his lofty sentiment — all 
that I most admire — all that I do not possess — and when to- 
day he descended to dinner, guided by that meddling booby, 
Forrester, I knew him at a glance. I should know him among 
ten thousand.” 

“ It’s to be hoped that he will have no such memory. I can’t 
see, indeed, how he should recognise either of us. Our disguises 
were complete. Your whiskers taken off, leave you as far from 
any resemblance to what you were in that affair, as any two 
men can well be from one another ; and I am perfectly satisfied 
he has little knowledge of me.” 

“ How should he?” retorted the other. “ The better part of 
valor saved you from all risk of danger or discovery alike ; but 


THE BLACK DOG. 


127 


the case is different with me. It may be that, enjoying the hap- 
piness which I have lost, he has forgotten the now miserable 
object that once dared to aspire — but no matter — it may bo 
that I am forgotten by him — he can never be by me.” 

This speech, which had something in it vague and purpose- 
less to the mind of Munro, was uttered with gloomy emphasis, 
more as a soliloquy than a reply, by the speaker. His hands 
were passed over his eyes as if in agony, and his frame seemed 
to shudder at some remote recollection which had still the dark 
influence upon him. Munro w^as a dull man in all matters that 
oelong to the heart, and those impulses which characterize souls 
of intelligence and ambition. He observed the manner of his 
companion, but said nothing in relation to it ; and the latter, 
unable to conceal altogether, or to suppress even partially his 
emotions, did not deign to enter into any explanation in regard 
to them. 

“ Does he suspect anything yet, Guy, think you? — have you 
seen anything which might sanction a thought that he knew or 
conjectured more than he should ?” inquired Munro, anxiously. 

“ I will not say that he does, but he has the perception of a 
lynx — he is an apt man, and his eyes have been more frequent- 
ly upon me to-day than I altogether relish or admire. It is true, 
mine were upon him — as how, indeed, if death were in the look, 
coold I have kept them off ! I caught his glance frequently ; turn- 
ing upen me with that stern, still expression, indifferent and in- 
solent — as if he cared not even while he surveyed, I remember 
that glance three years ago, when he was indeed a boy — I re- 
membered it when, but a few^ days since, he struck me to the 
earth, and would have ridden me to death with the hoofs of his 
horse, but for your timely appearance.” 

“ It may be as you believe, Guy ; but, as I saw nothing in his 
manner or countenance affording ground for such a belief, I can 
not but conceive it to have been because of the activity of your 
suspicions that you discovered his. I did not perceive that he 
looked upon you with more curiosity than upon any other at 
table ; though, if he had done so, I should by no means have 
been disposed to wonder ; for at this time, and since your face 
has been so tightly bandaged, you have a most villanously at- 
tractive visage. It carries with it, though you do regard it with 


128 


GUY RIVERS. 


SO mucli favor, a full and satisfactory reason for observance, with- 
out rendering necessary any reference to any more serious mat 
ter than itself. On the road, I take it, he saw quite too little 
of either of us to be able well to determine what was what, or 
who was who, either then or now. The passage was dark, our 
disguises good, and the long hair and monstrous whiskers which 
you wore did the rest. I have no apprehensions, and see not 
that you need have any.” 

“ I would not rest in this confidence — let us make sure that 
if he knows anything he shall say nothing,” was the significant 
reply of Eivers. 

“ Guy, you are too fierce and furious. When there’s a neces- 
sity, do you see, for using teeth, you know me to be always 
ready ; but I will not be for ever at this sort of work. If I 
svere to let you have your way you’d bring the whole country 
down upon us. There will be time enough when we see a 
reason for it to tie up this young man’s tongue.” 

“I see — I see! — you are ever thus — over risking our 
chance upon contingencies when you might build strongly upon 
certainties. You are perpetually trying the strength of the 
rope, when a like trouble would render it a sure hold-fast. 
Rather than have the possibility of this thing being blabbed, I 
would — ” 

“ Hush— hark !” said Munro, placing his hand upon the arm 
of his companion, and drawing him deeper into the copse, at 
the moment that Forrester, who had just left the chamber of 
Ralph, emerged from the tavern into the open air. The outlaw 
had not placed himself within the shadow of the trees in time 
sufficient to escape the searching gaze of the woodman, wbo, 
seeing the movement and only seeing one person, leaped nimbly 
forward with a light footstep, speaking thus as he approached : 

“Hello! there — who’s that — the pedler, sure. Have at 
you, Bunce!” seizing as he spoke the arm of the retreating 
figure, wh ) briefly and sternly addressed him as follows : — 

“It is well, Mr. Forrester, that he you have taken in hand is 
almost as quiet in temper as the pedler you mistake him for 
else your position might prove uncomfortable. Take your fin- 
gers from my aim, if you please.” 

“Oh, it’s you, Guy Rivers — and you here too, Mimro, njr* 


THE BLACK DOG. 


129 


king love to one another, I reckon, for want of better stuff. 
W ell, wlio’d have thought to find you two squatting here in the 
bushes! Would you believe it now, I took you for the Yan- 
kee — not meaning any offence though.” 

“ As I am not the Yankee, however, Mr. Forrester, you will 
I suppose, withdraw your hand,” said the other, with a manner 
sufficiently haughty for the stomach of the person addressed. 

“Oh, to be sure, since you wish it, and are not the pedler,” 
returned the other, Avith a manner rather looking, in the country 
phrase, to “ a squaring off for a fight” — “ but you needn’t be so 
gruff about it. You are on business, I suppose, and so I leave 
you.” 

“ A troublesome fool, Avho is disposed to be insolent,” said 
Rivers, after Forrester’s departure. 

“Damn him!” was the exclamation of the latter, on leaving 
ihe copse — “ I feel very much like putting my fingers on his 
throat; and shall do it, too, before he gets better manners !” 

The dialogue between the original parties was resumed. 

“ I tell you again, Munro — it is not by any means the wisest 
policy to reckon and guess and calculate that matters will go 
on smoothly, when Ave have it in our own power to make them 
certainly go on so. We must leave nothing to guess-work, and 
a single blow will readily teach this youth the proper way to be 
quiet.” 

“ Why, Avhat do you drive at, Guy. What would you do — 
what should be done ?” 

“ Beef — beef — beef ! mere beef ! How dull you are to-night ! 
were you in yon gloomy and thick edifice (pointing to the 
prison which frowned in perspective before them), with irons 
on your hands, and with the prospect through its narrow-grated 
loopholes, of the gallows-tree, at every turning before you, it 
might be matter of Avonder even to yourself that you should 
have needed any advice by which to avoid such a risk and 
prospect.” 

“ Look you, Guy — I stand in no gi-eater danger than your- 
self of the prospect of which you speak. The subject is, at 
best, an ugly one, and I do not care ‘to hear it spoken of by 
you, above all other people. If you want me to talk civilly 
with you, you must learn yourself to keep a civil tongue in your 

6 * 


130 


GUY RIVERS. 


head. I don’t seek to quarrel with anybody, but I will not 
submit U' be threatened with the penalties of the rogue by one 
who is a damned sight greater rogue than myself.” 

“You call things by their plainest names, Wat, at least,” 
said the other, with a tone moderated duly for the purpose of 
soothing down the bristles h.3 had made to rise — “but you 
mistake me quite. I meant r.o threat ; I only sought to show 
you how much we were at the mercy of a single word from a 
wanton and head-strong youth. I will not say confidently that 
he remembers me, but he had some opportunities for seeing my 
face, and looked into it closely enough. I can meet any fate 
with fearlessness, but should rather avoid it, at all risks, when 
it’s in my power to do so.” 

“ You are too suspicious, quite, Guy, even for our business. 
I am older than you, and have seen something more of the 
world : suspicion and caution are not the habit with young men 
likb this. They are free enough, and confiding enough, and in 
this lies our success. It is only the old man — the experienced 
in human affairs, that looks out for traps and pitfalls. It is for 
the outlaw — for you and me — to suspect all; to look with fear 
even upon one another, when a common interest, and perhaps 
a common fate, ought to bind us together. This being our 
habit, arising as it must from our profession, it is natural but not 
reasonable to refer a lite spirit to all other persons. We are 
wrong in this, and you are wrong in regard to this youth — not 
that I care to save him, for if he but looks or winks awry, I shall 
silence him myself, without speech or stroke from you being 
necessary. But I do not think he made out your features, and 
do not think he looked for them. He had no time for it, after 
the onset, and you were well enough disguised before. If he 
had made out anything, he would have shown it to-night ; but, 
saving a little stiffness, which belongs to all these young men 
from Carolina, I saw nothing in his manner that looked at all 
out of the way.” 

“Well, Munro, you are bent on having the thing as you 
please. You will find, when too late, that your counsel will end 
in having us all in a hobble.” 

“ Pshaw ! you are growing old and timid since this adventure. 

' You begin to doubt your ov n powers of defence. You find 


THE BLACK DOG. 


131 


your arguU^ents failing; and you fear that, when the tim« 
comes, you will not plead with your old spirit, though for the 
extrication of your own instead of the neck of your neighbor.” 

“Perhaps so — but, if there be no reason for apprehension, 
there is something due to me in the way of revenge. Is the 
fellow' to hurl me down, and trench my cheek in this manner, 
and escape without hurt 

The eyes of the speaker glared with a deadly fury, as he 
indicated in this sentence another motive for his persevering 
hostility to Colleton — an hostility for w'^hich, as subsequent 
passages will show, he had even a better reason than the un- 
pleasing wound in his face; which, nevertheless, was in itself, 
strange as it may appear, a considerable eyesore to its proprietor. 
Munro evidently understood this only in part; and, unaccus- 
tomed to attribute a desire to shed blood to any other than a 
motive of gain or safety, and without any idea of mortified 
pride or passion being productive of a thirst unaccountable to 
his mind, except in this manner, he proceeded thus, in a sen- 
tence, the dull simplicity of which only the more provoked the 
ire of his companion — 

“What do you think to do, Guy — what recompense would 
you seek to have — what would satisfy you?” 

The hand of Rivers grasped convulsively that of Ae ques- 
tioner as he spoke, his eyes were protruded closely into his 
face, his voice was thick, choking and husky, and his words 
tremulous, as he replied, 

“ His blood — his blood !” 

The landlord started back with undisguised horror from his 
glance. Though familiar with scenes of violence and crime, 
and callous in their performance, there w^as more of the Mam- 
mon than the Moloch in his spirit, and he shuddered at the 
nendlike look that met his own. The other proceeded : — 

“ The trench in my cheek is nothing to that within my soul. 
I tell you. Munro, I hate the boy — I hate him with a hatred 
that must have a tiger-draught from his veins, and even then I 
will not be satisfied. But wdiy talk I to you thus, when he is 
almost in my grasp, and there is neither let nor hinderance ? 
Sleeps he not in yon room to the northeast ?” 

“ He does, Guy — but it must not be ! I must not risk all for 


132 OtJY RTVKilS. 

your passion, which seems to me, as weak as it is without fide- 
(^uate provocation. I care nothing for the youth, atid you know 
it ; but I will not run the thousand risks which your temper is 
for ever bringing upon me. There is nothing to be gained, and 
a great deal to be lost by it, at this time. As for the scar — 
that, I think, is fairly a part of the business, and is not properly 
a subject of personal revenge. It belongs to the adventure, and 
you should not have engaged in it, without a due reference to 
its possible consequences.” 

“ You shall not keep me back by such objections as these. 
Do I not know how little you care for the risk — how little you 
can lose by it ?” 

“ True, T can lose little, but I have other reasons ; and, how- 
^ ever it may surprise you, those reasons spring from a desire for 
your good rather than my own.” 

“ For my good ?” replied the other, with an inquiring sneer. 

“ Yes, for your good, or rather for Lucy’s. You wish to mar- 
ry her. She is a sweet child, and an orphan. She merits a far 
better man than you ; and, bound as I am to give her to you, I 
am deeply bound to myself and to her, to make you as worthy 
of her as possible, and to give her as many chances for happi- 
ness as I can.” 

An incredulous smile played for a second upon the lips of the 
outlaw, succeeded quickly, however, by the savage expression, 
wh'.ch, from being that most congenial to his feelings, had be- 
co7ne that most habitual to his face. 

“ I can not be deceived by words like these,” was his reply, 
aj he stepped quickly from under the boughs which had shel- 
tered them and made toward the house. 

“ Think not to pursue this matter, Guy, on your life. I will 
not permit it ; not now, at least, if I have to strike for the youth 
myself.” 

Thus spoke the landlord, as he advanced in the same direc- 
tion. Both were deeply roused, and, though not reckless alike, 
^Munro was a man quite as decisive in character as his compan- 
ion was ferocious and vindictive. What might have been the 
result of their present position, had it not undergone a new in- 
terruption. might not well be foreseen. The sa.sii of one of the 
apartments of the building devoted to the family was suddenly 


THE BLACK DOG. 


133 


thrown up, and a soft and plaintive voice, accompanying the 
wandering and b'* 'ken strains of a guitar, rose sweetly into song 
upon the ear. 

“ ’Tis Lucy- -the poor girl ! Stay, Guy, and hear her music. 
She does not often sing now-a-days. She is quite melancholy, 
and it’s a long time since I’ve heard her guitar. She sings and 
plays sweetly ; her poor father had her taught everything be- 
fore he failed, for he was very proud of her, as well he might 
be.” 

They sunk again into the covert, the outlaw muttering sullen- 
ly at the interruption which had come between him and his 
purposes.' The music touched hinj not, for he betrayed no 
consciousness ; when, after a few brief preliminary notes on the 
instrument, the musician breathed forth the little ballad which 
follows: — • 

LUCY'S SONG. 

I. 

I MKT thy glance of scorn, 

And then my anguish slept. 

But, when the crowd was gone, 

I turned away and wept. .. 

II. , - 

I could not bear the frown > ,■. .. .-i- 

Of one who thus could move. 

And feel that all my fault, 

Was only too much love. 

III. 

“ I ask not if thy heart 

Hath aught for mine in store, 

Yet, let me love thee still, - 

If thou canst yield no more. " 

IV. 

“ Let me unchidden gaze. 

Still, on the heaven I see, 

Though all its happy rays , 

Be still denied to me.” 

A broken line of the lay, murmured at intervals for a few 
minutes after the entire piece was concluded, as it were in solil- 
oquy, indicated the sad spirit of the minstrel. She did not r^- 




4 -\ 




134 


GUY RIVERS. 


main long at the window ; in a little while the song ceased, and 
the light was withdrawn from the apartment. The musician 
had retired. 

“ They say, Guy, that music can quiet the most violent spirit, 
and it seems to have had its influence upon you. Does she not 
sing like a mocking-hird ? — is she not a sweet, a true creature 'I 
Why, man ! so forward and furious but now, and now so life- 
less ! bestir ye ! The night wanes.” 

The person addressed started from his stupor, and, as if utter- 
ly unconscious of what had been going on, ad interim^ actually 
replied to the speech of his companion made a little while prior 
to the appearance and music of the young girl, whose presence 
at that moment had most probably prevented strife and, possi- 
bly, bloodshed. He spoke as if the interruption had made 
only a momentary break in the sentence which he now con- ' 
eluded : — 

* He lies at the point of my knife, under my hands, within 
my power, without chance of escape, and I am to be held back 
— kept from striking — kept from my revenge — and for what? 
There may be little gain in the matter — it may not bring mour 
ey, and there may be some risk ! If it be with you, Munro, 
to have neither love nor hate, but what you do, to do only for 
the profit and spoil that come of it, it is not so with me. I can 
both love and hate ; though it be, as it has been, that I enter 
tain the one feeling in vain, and am restrained from the enjoy- 
ment of the other.” 

“You were born in a perverse time, and are querulous, for 
the sake of the noise it makes,” rejoined his cool companion. 

“ I do not desire to restrain your hands from this young man, 
but take your time for it. Let nothing be done to him while in 
this house. I will run, if I can help it, no more risk for your 
passions ; and I must confess myself anxious, if the devil will 
let me, of stopping right short in the old life and beginning a 
new one. I have been bad enough, and done enough, to keep 
me at my prayers all the rest of my days, were I to live on to 
eternity.” 

“ This new spirit, I suppose, we owe to your visit to the last 
camp-meeting. You will exhort, doubtless, yourself, before 
long, if you keep this track. Whj% what a prophet you will 


THE BLACK DOG. 135 

make among the crop-haired, Munro ! what a brand from the 
burning !” 

“ Look you, Guy, your sarcasm pleases me quite as little as 
it did the young fellow, who paid it back so much better than T 
can. Be wise, if you can, while you are wary ; if your words 
continue to come from the same nest, they will beget some- 
thing more than words, my good fellow.” 

“ True, and like enough, Munro ; and why do you provoke 
me to say them ?” replied E-ivers, something more sedately. 
“You see me in a passion — you know that I have cause — for 
is not this cause enough — this vile scar on features, now hide- 
ous, that were once surely not unpleasing.” 

As he spoke he dashed his fingers into the wound, which he 
still seemed pleased to refer to, though the reference evidently 
brought with it bitterness and mortification. He proceeded — 
his passion again rising predominant — 

“ Shall I spare the wretch whose ministry defaced me — shall 
I not have revenge on him who first wrote villain here — who 
branded me as an accursed thing, and among things bright and 
beautiful gave me the badge, the blot, the heel-stamp, due the 
serpent? Shall I not have my atonement — my sacrifice — 
and shal] you deny me — you, Walter Munro, who owe it to 
me in justice ?” 

“I owe it to you, Guy — how?” 

“You taught me first to be the villain you now find me. You 
first took me to the haunts of your own accursed and hell-edu- 
cated crew. You taught me all their arts, their contrivances, 
their lawlessness, and crime. You encouraged my own de- 
formities of soul till they became monsters, and my own spirit 
such a monster that I no longer knew myself. You thrust the 
weapon into my hand, and taught me its use. You put me on 
the scent of blood, and bade me lap it. I will not pretend that 
I was not ready and pliable enough to your hands. There was, 
I feel, little difficulty in moulding me to your own measure. I 
was an a]pt scholar, and soon cet sed to be the subordinate vil- 
lain, I was your companion, and too valuable to you to be lost 
or left. When I acquired new views of man, and began, in an- 
other sphere, that new life to wliicli you would now turn youi 
own eyes — when I grew strong among men, and famous, and 


136 


GUY RIVERS. 


public opinion grew enamored with tbe name, which your des- 
tiny compelled me to exchange for another, you sought me out 
— you thrust your enticements upon me; and, in an hour of 
gloom, and defeat, and despondency, yon seized upon me with 
those claws of tempation which are even now upon my shoul- 
ders, and I gave up all ! I made the sacrifice — name, fame, 
honor, troops of friends~for what? Answer you! You are 

— you own slaves in abundance — secure from your own 
fortunes, you have wealth hourly increasing. What have I? 
This scar, this brand, that sends me among men no longer the 
doubtful villain — the words are written there in full !” 

The speaker paused, exhausted. His face was pala and 
livid — his form trembled with convulsion — and his lips grew 
white and chalky, while quivering like a troubled water. The 
landlord, after a gloomy pause, replied : — 

“ You have spoken but the truth, Guy, and anything that I 
can do — ” 

You will not do !” responded the other, passionately, and in- 
terrupting the speaker in his speech. “ You will do nothing ! 
You ruin me in the love and esteem of those whom I love and 
esteem — you drive me into exile — you lead me into crime, 
and put me upon a pursuit which teaches me practices that 
brand me with man’s hate and fear, and — if the churchmen 
speak truth, which I believe not — with heaven’s eternal pun- 
ishment! What have I left to desire but hate — blood — the 
blood of man — who, in driving me away from his dwelling, has 
made me an unrelenting enemy — his hand everywhere against 
me, and mine against him 1 While I had this pursuit, I did not 
complain ; but you now interpose to deny me even this. The 
boy whom I hate, not merely because of his species, but, in ad- 
dition, with a hate incurred by himself, you protect from my 
vengeance, though affecting to be utterly careless of his fate — 
and all this you conclude with a profession of willingness to do 
for me whatever you can 1 What miserable mockery is this ?” 

“And have I done nothing — and am I seeking to do noth- 
ing for you, Guy, by way of atonement ? Have I not pledged 
to you the person of my niece, the sweet young innocent, whe 
•s not unworthy to be the wife of the purest and proudest gen- 
tleman of the southern country ? Is this nothing ~ is it nothing 


THE BLACK DOG. 


137 


to sacrifice such a creature to such a creature ? For well I know 
what must be her fate when she becomes your wife. Well I 
know you ! Vindictive, jealous, merciless, wicked, and fearless 
in wickedness — God help me, for it will be the very worst crime 
I have ever yet committed ! These are all yoiu’ attributes, and 
I^know the sweet child will have to suffer from the perpetual 
exercise ot all of them.” 

“Perhaps so! and as she will then be mine, she must suffer 
them, if I so decree ; but what avails your promise, so long as 
you — in this matter a child yourself — suffer her to protract 
and put off at her pleasure. Me she receives with scorn and 
contempt, you with tears and entreaties ; and you allow their 
influence; in the hope, doubtless, that some lucky chance — the 
pistol-shot or the hangman’s collar — will rid you of my impor- 
tunities. Is it not so, Munro said the ruffian, with a sneer of 
contemptuous bitterness. 

“ It would be, indeed, a lucky event for both of us, Guy, were 
you safely in the arms of your mother; though I have not 
delayed in this affair with any such hope. God knows I should 
be glad, on almost any terms, to be fairly free from your eter- 
nal croakings — never at rest, never satisfied, unless at some 
new deviltry and ill deed. If I did give you the first lessons 
in your education, Guy, you have long since gone beyond your 
master ; and I’m something disposed to think that Old Nick 
himself wust have taken up your tuition, where, from want of 
corresponding capacity, I was compelled to leave it off.” 

And the landlord laughed at his own humor, in despite of the 
hyena-glare shot forth from the eye of the savage he addressed. 
He continued : — 

“But, Guy, I’m not for letting the youth off — that’s as you 
please. You have a grudge against him, and may settle it to 
your own liking and in your own way. I have nothing to say 
to that. But I am determined to do as little henceforth toward 
hanging myself as possible ; and, therefore, the thing must not 
take place here. Nor do I like that it should be done at all 
without some reason. When he blabs, there’s a necessity for 
the thing, and self-preservation, you know, is the first law of 
nature. The case will then be as much mine as yours, and I’ll 
lend a helping hand willingly.” 


138 


GtJY RIVERS. 


“ My object, Mtinro, is scarcely the same with yoltrs. It 
goes beyond it ; and, whether he knows much or little, or speaks 
nothing or everything, it is still the same thing to me. I must 
have my revenge. But, for your own safety — are you bent on 
running the risk V* 

“ I am Guy, rather than spill any more blood unnecessarily. 
I have already shed too much, and my dreams begin to trouble 
me as I get older,” was the gi-ave response of the landlord. 

“ And how, if he speaks out, and you have no chance either 
to stop his mouth or to run for it ?” 

“Who’ll believe him, think you? — where’s the proof? Do 
you mean to confess for both of us at the first question ?” 

“ True — ,” said Rivers, “ there would be a difficulty in con- 
viction, but his oath would put us into some trouble.” 

“ I think not ; our people know nothing about him, and would 
scarcely lend much aid to have either of us turned upon our 
backs,” replied Munro, without hesitation. 

“ Well, be it then as you say. There is yet another subject,^ 
Munro, on which I have just as little reason to be satisfied as 
this. How long will you permit this girl to trifle with us both ? 
Why should you care for her prayers and pleadings — her tears 
and entreaties ? If you are determined upon the matter, as I 
have your pledge, these are childish and unavailing ; and the 
delay can have no good end, unless it be that you do in fact 
look, as I have said, and as I sometimes think, for some chance 
to take me off, and relieve you of my importunities and from 
your pledges.” 

“ Look you, Guy, the child is my own twin-brother’s only 
one, and a sweet creature it is. I must not be too hard with 
her ; she begs time, and I must give it.” 

“Why, how much time would she have? Heaven knows 
what she considers reasonable, or what you or I should call so ; 
but to my mind she has had time enough, and more by far than 
I was willing for. You must bring her to her senses, or let me 
do so. To my thought, she is making fools of us both.” 

“ It is, enough, Guy, that you have my promise. She shall 
consent, and I will hasten the matte; as fast as I can ; but I 
will not drive her, nor will I be driven myself. Your love is 
not such a desperate affair as to burn itself out for the want of 


THE BLACK DOG. 


13 ^ 


better fuel ; and you can wait for the proper season. If I 
thought for a moment that you did or could have any regard 
for the child, and she could be happy or even comfortable with 
you, I might push the thing something harder than I do ; but, 
as it stands, you must be patient. The fruit drops when it is 
ripe.” 

“ Rather when the frost is on it, and the worm is in the core, 
and decay has progressed to rottenness ! Speak you in tbit - 
way to the hungry boy, whose eyes have long anticipated Lis 
appetite, and he may listen to you and be patient — I neither 
can nor will. Look to it, Munro ; I will not much longer sub- 
mit to be imposed upon.” 

“ N or I, Guy Rivers. You forget yourself greatly, and entire- 
1}" mistake me, when you take these airs upon you. You are fe- 
verish now, and I will not suffer myself to grow angry ; but be 
prudent in your speech. We shall see to all this to-morrow and 
the next day — there is quite time enough — when we are both 
cooler and calmer than at present. The night is something too 
warm for deliberation ; and it is well we say no more on the one 
subject till we learn the course of the other. The hour is late, 
and we had best retire. In the morning I shall ride to hear 
old Parson Witter, in company with the old woman and Lucy. 
Ride along with us, and we shall be able better to understand 
one another.” 

As he spoke, Munro emerged from the cover of the tree under 
which their dialogue had chiefly been carried on, and reap- 
proached the dwelling, from which they had considerably re- 
ceded. His companion lingered in the recess. 

“ I will be there,” said Rivers, as they parted, “ though I still 
propose a ride of a few miles to-night. My blood is hot, and I 
must quiet it with a gallop.” 

The landlord looked incredulous as he replied — “ Some more 
deviltry : I will take a bet that the cross-roads see you in an 
hour.” 

“Not impossible,” was the response, and the parties were 
both lost to sight — the one in the shelter of his dwelling, the 
other in the dim shadow -pf the trees which girdled it. 


140 


GUY RIVEBa. 


CHAPTER XI 

FOREST PREACHING. 

At an early hour of the ensuing morning, Ralph was aroused 
from his slumbers, which had been more than grateful from the 
extra degree of fatigue he had the day before undergone, by 
the appearance of Forrester, who apologized for the somewhat 
unseasonable nature of his visit, by bringing tidings of a preacher 
and of a preaching in the neighborhood on that day. It was 
the sabbath — and though, generally speaking, very far from 
being kept holy in that region, yet, as a day of repose from 
labor — a holyday, in fact — it was observed, at all times, with 
more than religious scrupulosity. Such an event among the 
people of this quarter was always productive of a congregation. 
The occurrence being unfrequent, its importance was duly and 
necessarily increased in the estimation of those, the remote and 
insulated position of whom rendered society, whenever it could 
be found, a leading and general attraction. No matter what 
the character of the auspices under which it was attained, they 
yearned for its associations, and gathered where they were to be 
enjoyed. A field-preaching, too, is a legitimate amusement; 
and, though not intended as such, formed a genuine excuse and 
apology for those who desired it less for its teaching than its 
talk — who sought it less for the word which it brought of God 
than that which it furnished from the world of man. It was a 
happy cover for those who, cultivating a human appetite, and 
conscious of a human weakness, were solicitous, in respecting 
and providing for these, not to offend the Creator in the pres- 
ence of his creatures. 

The woodman, as one of this class, was full of glee, and prom- 
ised Ralph an intellectual treat ; for Parson Witter, the preacher 


FOREST PREACHING. 


141 


ill reference, liad more than once, as lie was pleased to acknowl- 
edge and phrase it, won his ears, and softened and delighted 
his heart. He was popular in the village and its neighborhood, 
and where regular pastor was none, he might be considered to 
have made the strongest impression upon his almost primitive 
and certainly only in part civilized hearers. His merits of mind 
were held of rather an elevated order, and in standard far ovei 
topping the current run of his fellow-laborers in the same vine- 
yard ; while his own example was admitted, on all hands, to 
keep pace evenly with the precepts which he taught, and to be 
not unworthy of the faith which he professed. He was of the 
methodist persuasion — a sect which, among those who have so- 
journed in our southern and western forests, may confidently 
claim to have done more, and with motives as little questiona- 
ble as any, toward the spread of civilization, good habits, and 
a proper morality, with the great mass, than all other known 
sects put together. In a word, where men are remotely situa- 
ted from one another, and can not well afford to provide for an 
established place of worship and a regular pastor, their labors, 
valued at the lowest standard of human want, are inappreciable. 
We may add that never did laborers more deserve, yet less fre- 
quently receive, their hire, than the preachers of this particular 
faith. Humble in habit, moderate in desire, indefatigable in well- 
doing, pure in practice and intention, without pretence or ostenta- 
tion of any kind, they have gone freely and fearlessly into places 
the most remote and perilous, with an empty scrip, but with 
hearts filled to overflowing with love of God and good-will to men 
— preaching their doctrines with a simple and an unstudied 
eloquence, meetly characteristic of, and well adapted to, the old 
groves, deep primitive forests, and rudely-barren wilds, in which 
it is their wont most commonly to give it utterance : day after 
clay, week after w^eek, and month after month, finding them 
wayfarers still — never slumbering, never reposing from the toil 
(hey have engaged in, until they have fallen, almost literally, 
into the narrow grave by the wayside ; their resting-places un- 
protected by any other mausoleum or shelter than those trees 
which have witnessed their devotions ; their names and wmrth 
unmarked by any inscription ; their memories, however, closely 
treasured up and carefully noted among human affections, and 


142 


GUY RIVERS. 

within the bosoms of those for whom their labors have been 
taken ; while their reward, with a high ambition cherished well 
in their lives, is found only in that better abode where they are 
promised a cessation from their labors, but where their good 
works still follow them. This, without exaggeration, applica- 
ble to the profession at large, was particularly due to the indi- 
vidual member in question ; and among the somewhat savage 
and always wild people whom he exhorted, Parson Witter was 
in many cases an object of sincere affection, and in all com- 
manded their respect. 

As might readily be expected, the whole village and as much 
of the surrounding country as could well be apprized of the 
affair were for the gathering ; and Colleton, now scarcely feel- 
ing his late injuries, an early breakfast having been discussed, 
mounted his horse, and, under the guidance of his quondam 
friend Forrester, took the meandering path, or, as they phrase 
it in those parts, the old trace, to the place of meeting and 
prayer. 

The sight is something goodly, as well to the man of the 
world as to the man of God, to behold the fairly-decked array 
of people, drawn from a circuit of some ten or even fifteen miles 
in extent, on the sabbath, neatly dressed in their choicest ap- 
parel, men and women alike well mounted, and forming numer- 
ous processions and parties, from three to five or ten in each, 
bending from every direction to a given point, and assembling 
for the purposes of devotion. No chiming and chattering bells 
warn them of the day or of the duty — no regularly-constituted 
and well-salaried priest — no time-honored fabric, round which 
the old forefathers of the hamlet rest — reminding them regu- 
larly of the recurring sabbath, and the sweet assemblage of their 
fellows. We are to assume that {.he teacher is from their own 
impulses, and that the heart calls them with due solemnity to 
the festival of prayer. The preacher comes when the spirit 
prompts, or as circumstances may impel or permit. The news 
of his arrival passes from farm to farm, from house to house ; 
placards announce it from the trees on the roadside, parallel, it 
may be, with an advertisement for strayed oxen, as we have 
seen it numberless times ; and a day does not well elapse before 
it is in possession of everybody who might well avail them- 


FOREST PREACHING. 


143 


Delves of its promise for the ensuing Sunday. The parson comes 
to the house of one of his auditory a night or two before ; mes- 
sages and messengers are despatched to this and that neighbor, 
who despatch in turn to other neighbors. The negroes, de- 
lighting in a service and occasion of the kind — in which, by- 
tlie-way, they generally make the most conspicuous figures — 
though somewhat sluggish as couriers usually, are now not 
merely ready, but actually swift of foot. The place of worship 
and the preacher are duly designated, and, by the time aj)- 
pointed, as if the bell had tolled for their enlightenment, the 
country assembles at the stated place ; and though the preacher 
may sometimes fail of attendance, the people never do. 

The spot appointed for the service of the day was an old 
grove of gigantic oaks, at a distance of some five or six miles 
from the village of (Jhestatee. Tfie village itself had not been 
chosen, though having the convenience of a building, because of 
the liberal desire entertained by those acting on the occasion 
to afford to others living at an equal distance the same oppor- 
tunities without additional fatigue. The morning was a fine 
one, all gayety and sunshine — the road dry, elevated, and 
shaded luxuriantly with the overhanging foliage — the woods 
having the air of luxury and bloom which belonged to them at 
such a season, and the prospect, varied throughout by the 
wholesome undulations of valley and hill, which strongly mark- 
ed the face of the country, greatly enlivened the ride to the eye 
of our young traveller. Everything contributed to impart a 
cheering influence to his senses ; and with spirits and a frame 
newly braced and invigorated, he felt the bounding motion of 
the steed beneath him with an animal exultation, which took 
from his countenance that look of melancholy which had hith- 
erto clouded it. 

As our two friends proceeded on their way, successive and 
frequent groups crossed their route, or fell into it from other 
roads — some capriciously taking the by-paths and Indian tracks 
through the woods, but all haying the same object in view, and 
bending to the same point of assemblage. Here gayly pranced 
on a small cluster of the young of both sexes, laughing with 
unqualified glee at the jest. of some of their companions— while 
in the rear, the more staid, the antiques and those rapidly be* 


144 


G0Y rivers. 


coming so, with more measured gait, paced on in suite. On the 
road-side, striding on foot with step almost as rapid as that of 
the riders, came at intervals, and one after the other, the 
now trimly-dressed slaves of this or that plantation all de- 
voutly bent on the place of meeting. Some of the whites car 
ried their double-barrelled guns, some their rifles — it being 
deemed politic, at that time, to prepare for all contingencies, 
for the Indian or for the buck, as well as for the more direct 
object of the journey. 

At length, in a rapidly approaching group, a bright but timid 
glance met that of Colleton, and curbing in the impetuous ani- 
mal which he rode, in a few moments he found himself side by 
side with Miss Munro, who answered his prettiest introductory 
compliment with a smile and speech, uttered with a natural 
grace, and with the spirit of a dame of chivalry. 

“ We have a like object to-day, I presume,” was, after a few 
complimentary sentences, the language of Ralph — “yet,” he 
continued, “ I fear me, that our several impulses at this time 
scarcely so far resemble each other as to make it not discredita- 
ble to yours to permit of the comparison.” 

“ I know not what may be the motive which impels you, sir 
to the course you take ; but I will not pretend to urge that, 
even in my own thoughts, my route is any more the result of a 
settled conviction of its high necessity than it may be in yours, 
and the confession which I shame to make, is perhaps of itself, 
a beginning of that very kind of self-examination which we 
seek the church to awaken.” 

“ Alas, Miss Lucy, even this was not in my thought, so much 
are we men ignorant of or indifferent to those things which are 
thought of so much real importance. We seldom regard matters 
which are not of present enjoyment. The case is otherwise 
with you. There is far more truth, my own experience tells 
me, in the profession of your sex, whether in love or in religion, 
than in ours — and believe me, I mean this as nc idle compli- 
ment — I feel it to be true. The fact is, society itself puts you 
into a sphere and condition, which, taking from you much of 
your individuality, makes you less exclusive in your affections, 
and more single in their exercise. Your existence being merged 
in that of the stronger sex, you lose all that general selfishness 


FOREST PREACHING. 


145 


wliich is the strict result of our pursuits. Your impulses are 
narrowed to a single point or two, and there all your hopes, 
fears and desires, become concentrated. You acquire an intense 
susceptibility on a few subjects, by the loss of those manifold 
influences which belong to the out-door habit of mankind. 
With us, we have so many resources to fly to for relief, so many 
attractions to invite and seduce, so many resorts of luxury and 
life, that the affections become broken up in small, the heart is 
divided among the thousand; and, if one fragment suffers de- 
feat or denial, why, the pang scarcely touches, and is perhaps 
unfelt by all the rest. You have but few aims, few hopes. 
With these your very existence is bound up, and if you lose 
these you are yourselves lost. Thus I find that your sex, to a 
certain age, are creatures of love — disappointment invariably 
begets devotion — and either of these passions, for so they 
should be called, once brought into exercise, forbids and excludes 
every other.” 

“ Really, Mr. Colleton, you seem to have looked somewhat 
into the philosophy of this subject, and you may be right in the 
inferences to which you have come. On this point I may say 
nothing ; but, do you conceive it altogether fair in you thus to 
compliment us at our own expense ? You give us the credit (>/ 
truth, a high eulogimn, I grant, in matters which relate to the 
the affections and the heart; but this is di ne by robbing us en- 
tirely of mental independence. You are a kind of generous 
outlaw, a moral Robin Hood, you compel us to give up every- 
thing we possess, in order that you may have the somewhat 
equivocal merit of restoring back a small portion of what you 
take.” 

“ True, and this, I am afraid. Miss Lucy, however by the ad- 
mission I forfeit for my sex all reputation for chivalry, is after 
all the precise relationship between us. The very fact that the 
requisitions made by our sex produce immediate concession 
from yours, establishes the dependence of which you complain.” 

“You mistake me, sir. I complain not of the robbery- -far 
from it ; for, if we do lose the possession of a commodity so 
valuable, we are at least freed from the responsibility of keep- 
ing it. The gentlemen, nowadays, seldom look to us for intel- 
lectual gladiatorship ; they are content that our weahness 

7 


GUY RI'VTJRS. 


IM 


should shield us from the war. But, I conceive the reproach 
of our poverty to .come unkindly from those who make us poor. 
It is of this, sir, that I complain.” 

“ You are just, and justly severe. Miss Munro ; but what else 
have you to expect? Amazon-like, your sex, according to the 
quaint old story, sought the combat, and were not unwilling to 
abide the conditions of the warfare. The taunt is coupled with 
the triumph — the spoil follows the victory — and the captive is 
chained to the chariot-wheel of his conqueror, and must adorn 
the march of his superior by his own shame and sorrows. But,, 
to be just to myself, permit me to say, that what you havo 
.considered a reproach was in truth designed as a compliment. 
I must regret that my modes of expression are so clumsy, that,, 
in the utterance of my thought, the sentiment so changed its 
original shape as entirely to lose its identity. It certainly deserv- 
ed the graceful swordsmanship which foiled it so completely.” 

“ Nay, sir,” said the animated girl, “ you are bloodily-minded 
toward yourself, and it is matter of wonder to me how you sur- 
vive your own rebuke. So far from erring in clumsy phrase, I 
am constrained to admit that I thought, and think you, exces- 
sively adroit and happy in its management. It was only with 
a degree of perversity, intended solely to establish our inde- 
pendence of opinion, at least for the moment, that I chose to* 
mistake and misapprehend you. Your remark, clothed in any 
other language, could scarcely put on a form more consistent 
with your meaning.” 

Ralph bowed at a compliment which had something equivocal 
ui it, and this branch of the conversation having reached its 
legitimate close, a pause of some few moments succeeded, when 
they found themselves joined by other parties, until the cortege 
vas swollen in number to the goodly dimensions of a cavalcade 
or caravan designed for a pilgrimage. 

“ Report speaks favorably of the preacher we are to hear t(^^ 
day, Miss Munro — have you ever heard him ?” was the inquiry 
of the youth. 

“ I have* sir, frequently, and have at all times been much 
. pleased and swnetimes affected by his preaching. There are 
few pefsdris 1 would Irtore desire to hear than himself— he does 
liot ofihiid ynttf 0fit8, nOi' aspall your understanding by unmean 


ii 


A 




' FOREST PREACHING. 


147 


ing thunders. His matter and manner, alike, are distinguished 
by modest good sense, a gentle and dignified ease and spirit, 
and a pleasing earnestness in his object that is never offensive. 
I think, sir, you will like him.” 

“ Your opinion of him will certainly not diminish my atten- 
tion, I assure you, to what he says,” was the reply. 

At this moment the cavalcade was overtaken and joined by 
Rivers and Munro, together with several other villagers. Ralph 
now taking advantage of a suggestion of Forrester’s, previously 
made — who proposed, as there would be time enough, a circui- 
tous and pleasant ride through a neighboring valley — avoided 
the necessity of being in the company of one with respect to 
whom he had determined upon a course of the most jealous 
precaution. Turning their horses’ heads, therefore, in the pro- 
posed direction, the two left the procession, and saw no more of 
the party until their common arrival at the secluded grove — 
druidically conceived for the present purpose — in which the 
teacher of a faith as simple as it was pleasant was already pre- 
paring to address them. 

The venerable oaks — a goodly and thickly clustering assem- 
blage — forming a circle around, and midway upon a hill of 
gradual ascent, had left an opening in the centre, concealed 
from the eye except when fairly penetrated by the spectator. 
Their branches, in most part meeting above, afforded a roof less 
regular and gaudy, indeed, but far more grand, majestic, and 
we may add, becoming, for purposes like the present, than the 
dim and decorated cathedral, the workmanship of human hands. 
Its application to this use, at this time, recalled forcibly to tlie 
mind of the youth the forms and features of that primitive wor- 
ship, when the trees bent with gentle murmurs above the heads 
of the rapt worshippers, and a visible Deity dwelt in the 
shadowed valleys, and whispered an auspicious acceptance f 
their devotions in every breeze. He could not help acknowh 
edging, as, indeed, must all who have ever been under the 
influence of such a scene, that in this, more properly and per- 
fectly than in any other temple, may the spirit of man recognise 
and hold familiar and free converse with the spirit of his Crea 
toi'. Here, indeed, without much effort of the imagination, 
might 1)6 beheld the present God«“-the trees> hills and vales. 


148 - 


GUY RIVERS. 


the wild flower and the murmuring water, all the work of hia 
hands,- attesting his power, keeping their purpose, and obeying, 
without scruple, the order of those seasons, for the sphere and 
operation of which he originally designed them. They were 
mute lessoners, and the example which, in the progress of their 
existence, year after year, they regularly exhibited, might well 
persuade the more responsible representative of the same power 
the propriety of a like obedience. 

A few fallen trees, trimmed of their branches and touched 
with the adze, ranging at convenient distances under the houghs 
of those along with which they had lately stood up in proud 
equality, furnished seats for the now rapidly-gathering assem- 
blage. A rough stage, composed of logs, rudely hewn and 
crossing each other at right angles, covered, when at a height 
of sufiicieut elevation, formed the pulpit from which the preacher 
was to exhort. A chair, brought from some cottage in the 
neighborhood, surmounted the stage. This was all that art 
had done to accommodate nature to the purposes of man. 

In the body of the wood immediately adjacent, fastened to 
the overhanging branches, were tiie goodly steeds of the com- 
pany ; forming, in themselves, to the unaccustomed and inex- 
perienced eye, a grouping the most curious. Some, more docile 
than the rest, were permitted to rove at large, cropping the 
young herbage and tender grass ; occasionally, it is time, during 
the seiwice, overleaping their limits in a literal sense ; neighing, 
whinnying and kicking up their heels to the manifest confusion 
of the pious and the discomfiture of the preacher. 

The hour at length arrived. The audience was numerous if 
not select. All persuasions — for even in that remote region 
sectarianism had done much toward banishing religion — as- 
sembled promiscuously together and without show of discord, 
excepting that here and there a high stickler for church aris- 
tocracy, in a better coat than his neighbor, thrust him aside ; 
or, in another and not less offensive form of pride, in the exter- 
nals of humility und rotten with innate malignity, groaned 
audibly through his clenched teeth; and with shut eyes and 
crossed hands, as in prayer, sought to pass a practical rebuke 
upon the less devout exhibitions of those around him. The 
^ant and the clatter, as it prevails in the crowded mai-t, were 


f’OREST PREACHING. 


149 


here in miniature ; and Charity would have needed something 
more than a Kamschatka covering to have shut out from her 
eyes the enormous hypocrisy of many among the clamorous 
professors of that faith of which they felt little and knew less. 
If she shut her eyes to the sight, their groans were in her ears ; 
and if she turned away, they took her by the elbow, and called 
her a backslider herself. Forrester whispered in the ears of 
Ralph, as his eye encountered the form of Miss Munro, who sat 
primly amid a flock of venerables — 

“ Doesn’t she talk like a book ? Ah, she’s a smart, sweet 
girl j it’s a pity there’s no better chance for her than Guy 
Rivers. But where’s he — the rascal ? Do you know I nearly 
got my fingers on his throat last night. I felt deusedly like it, 
I tell you.” 

“ Why, what did he to you ?” 

“ Answered me with such impudence ! I took him for the 
pedler in the dark, and thought I had got a prize ; it wasn’t the 
pedler, but something worse — for in my eyes he’s no better 
than a polecat.” 

But, the preacher Had risen in his place, and all was silence 
and attention. We need scarcely seek to describe him. His 
appearance was that of a very common man ; and the anticipa- 
tions of Colleton, as he was one of those persons apt to be taken 
by appearances, suffered something like rebuke. His figure was 
diminutive and insignificant ; his shoulders were round, and his 
movements excessively awkward ; his face was thin and sallow 
his eyes dull and inexpressive, and too small seemingly for com- 
mand. A too-frequent habit of closing them in prayer contrib- 
uted, no doubt, greatly to this appearance. A redeeming ex- 
pression in the high forehead, conically rising, and the strong 
character exhibited in his nose, neutralized in some sort the 
generally-unattractive outline. His hair, which was of a deep 
black, was extremely coarse, and closely cropped : it gave to 
his look that general expression which associated him at once 
in the mind of Ralph, whose reading in those matters was fresh, 
with the commonwealth history of England — with the puritans, 
and those diseased fanatics of the Cromwell dynasty, not omit- 
ting that pj )found hypocrite himself. What, then, was the sur- 
prise of the you h, having such impressions, to hear a discourse 


160 


Gtrr RIVERS. 


unassuming in its dictates, mild in its requisitions, and of a styl6 
and temper the most soothing and persuasive ! 

The devotions commenced with a hymn, two lines of which, 
at a time, having been read and repeated by the preacher, fur- 
nished a guide to the congregation ; the female portion of which 
generally united to sing, and in a style the sweetness of which 
was doubly effective from the utter absence of all ornament in 
the music. The strains were just such as the old shepherds, 
out among the hills, tending their charges, might have been 
heard to pour forth, almost unconsciously, to that God who 
sometimes condescended to walk along with them. After this 
Avas over, the preacher rose, and read, with a voice /as clear a."! 
unaffected, the twenty -third psalm of David, the images of whic''. 
are borroAved chiefly from the life in the Avilderness, and were 
therefore not unsuited to the ears of those to Avhom it Avas no v 
addressed. Witliout proposing any one portion of this peiib:m- 
ance as a text or subject of commentary, and without seeking, 
as is quite too frequently the case Avith small teachers, to ex- 
plain doubtful passages of little meaning and no importance, he 
delivered a discourse, in which he simply dilated upon and car- 
ried out, for the benefit of those about him, and with a direct 
reference to the case of all of them, those beautiful portraits of 
a good shepherd and guardian God which the production Avhich 
he read furnished to his hands. lie spoke of the dependence 
of the creature — instanced, as it is daily, by a thousand Avants 
and exigencies, for which, unless by the care and under the 
countenance of Providence, he could never of himself provide. 
He narrated the dangers of the forest — imaging by this figure 
the mazes and mysteries of life — the difiiculty, nay, the almost 
utter impossibility, unless by His sanction, of procuring suste- 
nance, and of counteracting those innumerable incidents by fell 
and flood, which, in a single moment, defeat the cares of the 
hunter and the husbandman — setting at naught his industry, 
destroying his fields and cattle, blighting his crops, and tearing 
up Avith the wing of the hurricane even the cottage which gives 
shelter to his little ones. He awelt largely and long upon those 
numberless and sudden events in the progress of life and human 
circumstance, OA'er wh:ch, as they could neither be foreseen nor 
combated with by man, he had no oontrol ; and appealed for 


PORtBT PREACHING. 


151 


him to the Great Shepherd, who alone could dt> both. Having 
shown the necessity of such an appeal and reference, he next 
proceeded to describe the gracious willingness vhich had at all 
times been manifested by the Creator to extend the required 
protection. He adverted to the fortunes of all the patriarchs 
in support of this position ; and, singling out innumerable in- 
stances of this description, confidently assured them, in turn, 
from these examples, that the same Shepherd was not unwilling 
to provide for them in like manner. Under his protection, he 
assured them, “ they should not want.” He dilated at length, 
and with a gi-aceful dexterity, upon the truths — the simple and 
mere truths of God’s providence, and the history of his people 
— which David had embodied in the beautiful psalm which he 
had read them. It was poetry, indeed — sweet poetry — but it 
was the poetry of truth and not of fiction. Did not history sus- 
tain its every particular ? Had not the Shepherd made them to 
lie down in green pastures — had he not led them beside the 
still waters — restored he not their souls — did he not lead them, 
for his name’s sake, in the paths of righteousness — and though 
at length they walked through the valley where Death had 
cast his never-departing shadow, was he not with them still, 
keeping them even from the fear of evil ? He furnished them 
with the rod and staff ; he prepared the repast for them, even 
in the presence of their enemies ; he anointed their heads with 
oil, and blessed them with quiet and abundance, until the cup 
of their prosperity was running over — until they even ceased 
to doubt that goodness and mercy should follow them all the 
days of their life ; and, with a proper consciousness of the 
source whence this great good had arisen, they determined, 
with the spirit not less of wise than of worthy men, to follow 
his guidance, and thus dwell in the house of the Lord for ever. 
Such did the old man describe the fortunes of the old patriarchs 
to have been ; and such, having first entered into like obliga- 
tions, pursuing them with the same fond fixedness of purpose, 
did he promise should be the fortunes of all who then listened 
to his voice. 

As he proceeded to his peroration, he grew warmed with the 
broad and boundless subject before him, and his declamation 
became alike bold and beautiful. All eyes were fixed upon 


152 


GtrY RIVBJtS. 


him, and not a whisper from the still-murmuring woods which 
girded them in was perceptible to the senses of that pleased 
and listening assembly. The services of the morning were 
closed by a paraphrase, in part, of the psalm from which his 
discourse had been drawn ; and as this performance, in its pres- 
ent shape, is not to be found, we believe, in any of the books 
devoted to such purposes, it is but fair to conclude that the old 
man — not unwilling, in his profession, to employ every engine 
for the removal of all stubbornness from the hearts of those he 
addressed — sometimes invoked Poetry to smile upon his devo- 
tions, and wing his aspirations for the desired flight. It was 
sung by the congregation, in like manner with the former — the 
preacher reading two lines at a time, after having first gone 
through the perusal aloud of the piece entire. With the recog- 
nised privilege of the romancer, who is supposed to have a wiz- 
ard control over men, events, and things alike, we are enabled 
to preserve the paraphrase here : — 

“SHEPHERD’S HYMN 

“Oh, when I rove the desert waste, and ’neath the hot sun pant, 

The Lord shall be my shepherd then — he will not let me want — 

He’ll lead me where the pastures are of soft and shady green. 

And where the gentle waters rove the quiet hills between. 

‘ And when the savage shall pursue, and in his grasp I sink. 

He will prepare the feast for me, and bring the cooling drink — 

And save me harmless from his hands, and strengthen me in toil, 

And bless my home and cottage-lands, and crown my head with oiL 

“With such a Shepherd. to protect — to guide and guard me still, 

And bless my heart with every good, and keep from every ill — 

Surely I shall not turn aside, and scorn his kindly care. 

But keep the path he points me out, and dwell for ever there.” 

Tlie service had not yet been concluded — the last parting 
offices of prayer and benediction had yet to be performed — 
when a boy, about fourteen years of age, rushed precipitately 
into the assembly. His clothes were torn and bloody, and he 
was smeared with dirt from head to foot. He spoke, but his 
words were half intelligible only, and comprehended by. but 
one or two of the persons around him. Munro immediately 


FOREST PREACHING. 153 

rose and carried liim out. He was followed by Rivers, who 
had been sitting beside him. 

The interruption silenced everything like prayer ; there was 
no further attention for the preacher ; and accordingly a most 
admired disorder overspread ^e audience. One after another 
rose and left the area, and those not the first to withdraw 
followed in rapid succession ; until, under the influence of that 
wild stimulant, curiosity, the preacher soon found himself ut- 
terly unattended, except by the female portion of his auditory. 
These, too, or rather the main body of them at least, were now 
only present in a purely physical sense ; for, with the true char- 
acteristic of the sex, their minds were busily employed in the 
wilderness of reflection which this movement among the men 
had necessarily inspired. 

Ralph Colleton, however, with praiseworthy decorum, lin- 
gered to the last — his companion Forrester, under the influence 
of a wdiisper from one over his shoulder, having been among the 
^rst to retire. He, too, could not in the end avoid the general 
disposition, and at length took his way to the animated and 
earnest knot which he saw assembled in the shade of the ad- 
joining thicket, busied in the discussion of some concern of 
more than common interest.. In his departure from the one 
gathering to the other, he caught a glance from the eye of Lucy 
Munro, which had in it so much of warning, mingled at the 
same time with an expression of so much interest, that he half 
stopped in his progress, and, but for the seeming indecision and 
awkwardness of such a proceeding, would have returned — the 
more particularly, indeed, when, encountering her gaze with a 
corresponding fixedness — though her cheek grew to crimson 
with the blush that overspread it — her glance was not yet with- 
drawn. He felt that her look was full of caution, and in- 
wardly determined upon due circumspection. The cause of 
interruption may as well be reserved for the next chapter. 


154 


GUY RIVERS. 


chapti*:r XII. 

TROUBLE AMONG T IE TRESPASSERS. 

Ralph now made his way into the thick of the crowd, curi- 
ous to ascertain the source of so much disquiet and tumult as 
now began to manifest itself among them. The words of peace 
which they had just heard seemed to have availed them but 
little, for every brow was blackened, and every tongue tipped 
with oaths and execrations. His apj)earance attracted no atten • 
tion, if, indeed, it were not entirely unobserved. The topic in 
hand was of an interest quite too fresh and absorbing to permit 
of a single glance toward any other of more doubtful impor- 
tance, and it was only after much delay that he was enabled at 
length to get the least insight into the mystery. All were 
speakers, counsellors, orators — old and young, big and little, 
illustrious and obscure — all but the legitimate and legal coun- 
sellor Pippin, who, to the surprise of the youth, W'as to be seen 
galloping at the uttermost stretch of his horse’s legs towmrd the 
quiet of his own abode. The lawyer was known to havx a 
particular care of number one, and such a movement excited no 
remark in any of the assembly. There wms danger at hand, 
and he knew his value — besides, there might be business for 
the sessions, and he valued too highly the advantages, in a jury- 
case, of a clean conscience, not to be solicitous to keep his honor 
clear of any art or part in •criminal matters, saving only such 
connection as might come professionally. 

That the lawyer was not without reason for his precaution, 
Ralph had soon abundant testimony himself. Arms and the 
munitions of war, as if by magic, had been rapidly collected. 
Some of the party, it is true, had made their appearance at 
tl\e place of prayer wuth rifles and foW'liut2;pieecs> a ptaetice 


TROUBLE AMONG THE TRESPASSERS. 155 

which occasioned no surprise. But the managers of the pres- 
ent movement had seemingly furnished all hands with w^eapons, 
offensive and defensive, of one kind or another. Some were 
caparisoned with pistols, cutlasses, and knives ; and, not to 
speak of pickaxes and clubs, the array was sufficiently formida- 
ble. The attitude of all parties was warlike in the extreme, 
and the speeches of those who, from time to time, condescended 
to please themselves by haranguing their neighbors, teemed with 
nothing but strife and wounds, fight and furious performance. 

The matter, as we have already remarked, was not made out 
by the youth without considerable difficulty. He obtained, 
however, some particulars from the various speakers, which, 
taken in connection with the broken and incoherent sentences 
of Forrester, who dashed into speech at intervals with some- 
thing of the fury of a wounded panther in a cane-brake, con- 
tributed at length to his full enlightenment. 

“Matter enough — matter enough ! and you will think so to^ 
— to be robbed of our findings by a parcel of blasted ’coons, 
that haven’t soul enough to keep them freezing. Why, this is 
the matter, you must know : only last week, we miners of 
Tracy’s diggings struck upon a fine heap of the good stuff, and 
have been gathering gold pretty freely ever since. All the boys 
have been doing well at it; better than they ever did before — 
and even Munro there, and Rivers, who have never been very 
fond of work, neither of them, have been pretty busy ever since ; 
for, as I tell you, we were making a sight of money, all of us. 
Well now, somehow or other, our good luck got to the ears of 
George Dexter and his men, who have been at work for some 
time past upon old Johnson’s diggings about fourteen miles up 
on the Sokee river. They could never make much out of tho 
place, I know; for what it had good in it was pretty much 
cleaned out of it when I was there, and I know it can’t get bet- 
ter, seeing that gold is not like trees, to grow out every year. 
Well, as I say, George Dexter, who would just as lief do wrong 
as riglit, and a great deal rather, got tired, as well as all his 
boys, of working for the fun of the thing only ; and so, hearing 
as I say of our good luck, what did they do but last night come 
quietly down upon our trace, and when Jones, the old man we 
kept there as a .kind of safeguard, tried to stop ’em, they shot 


156 


guy rivers. 

him through the body as if he had been a pig. Ilis son got 
away when his father was shot, though they did try to shoot 
him too, and come post haste to tell us of the transaction^ 
There stands the lad, his clothes all bloody and ragged. He’s 
had a good run of it through the hushes, I reckon.” 

“ And they are now in possession of your lands 

“ Every fellow of ’em, holding on with gun in hand, and swea--*- 
ing to be the death of us, if we try for our own. But we’ll show 
them what’s what, or I can’t fling a hatchet or aim a rifle. This, 
now, Master Colleton, is the long and the short of the matter.” 

“ And what do you propose to do ?” asked Ralph, of hi: in- 
formant. 

“ Why, what should we do, do you think, but find out who 
the best men are, and put them in possession. There’s not a 
two-legged creature among us that won’t be willing to try that 
question, any how, and at any time, but more particularly now, 
when everything depends upon it.” 

“And when do you move, Forrester?” 

“ Now, directly — this very minute. The boys have just sent 
for some more powder, and are putting things in readiness for a 
brush.” 

The resolution of Ralph was at once adopted. He had noth- 
ing, it is true, to do with the matter — no interest at stake, and 
certainly no sympathy with the lawless men who went forth to 
fight for a property, to which they had not a jot more of right 
than had those who usurped it from them. But here was a 
scene — here was incident, excitement — and with all the enthu- 
siasm of the southern temper, and with that uncalculating 
warmth which so much distinguishes it, he determined, without 
much regard to the merits of the question, to go along with the 
party. 

“ I'll ride with you, Forrester, and see what’s going on.” 

'And stand up with us, ’squire, and join in the scuffle?” in- 
quired his companion. 

“ I say not that, Forrester. I have no concern in this matter, 
and so long as I am let alone myself, I see no reason for taking 
part in an affair, of the merits of which I am almost entirely 
ignorant.” 

“You will take your arms with you, I suppose. You can 


TROUBLE AMONG THE TRESPASSEltS. 157 

lend tliem to those who fight, though you make no use of them 
yourself.” y 

“Yes — I never go without arms in travelling, hut I shall 
not lend them. A man should no more lend his arms than he 
should lend his coat. Every man should have his own weap- 
ons.” 

“Yes; but, ’squire, if you go along with us, you may be 
brought into the scrape. The other party may choose to con- 
sider you one of us.” 

“ It is for this reason, not less than others, that I would carry 
and not lend my arms.” 

“Well, ’squire, you might lend them to some of us, and I 
would ansAver for them. It’s true, as you say, that every man 
should have his own weapons; but some among us, you sec, 
ha’n’t got ’em, and it’s for that we’ve been waiting. But come, 
it’s time to start ; the boys are beginning to be in motion ; and 
here come Munro and that skunk Rivers. I reckon Munro 
will have the command, for he’s thought to be the most cunning 
among us.” 

The party was now ready for departure, when a new inter- 
ruption was experienced. The duties of the pastor were yet to 
begin, and, accordingly, sallying forth at the head of his re- 
maining congregation. Parson Witter placed himself in front of 
the seceders. It is unnecessary that we should state his pur- 
pose ; it is as little necessary that we should say that it was un- 
availing. Men of the kind of whom we speak, though perhaps 
not insensible to some of the bolder virtues, have no sympathy 
or love for a faith which teaches forbearance under wrong and 
insult, and meekness under blows. If they did not utterly 
laugh in his face, therefore, at his exhortations, it was because, 
at the very first, they had to a man turned their backs upon 
him, and were now generally mounted. Following the common 
lead, Ralph approached the group where stood his fair friend 
of the morning ; and acknowledged, in an under-tone, to herself, 
the correctness of her opinion in regard to the merits of the 
sermon. She did not reply to the observation, but seeing his 
hand upon the bridle, asked hundedly — 

“Do you, sir — does Mr. Colleton go with this party?” 

“ I do j the circumstanci.s are all so novel, and I am curious 


GUY RIVERS. 


to sot) as mucli of manners and events foreign to tliose to which 
I havti been accustomed, as may he practicable.” 

“ I ihar, sir, that those which you may behold on occasions 
such as these, and in this country, though they may enlighten 
you, will do little toward your gratification. You have friends, 
sir, who might not be willing that you should indulge in un- 
necessary* exposure, for the satisfaction of a curiosity so 
unpromising.” 

Her manner was dignified, and though as she spoke a some- 
thing of rebuke came mingled with the caution which her 
language conveyed, yet there was evidently such an interest in 
his fortunes embodied in what she said, that the listener whom 
she addressed could not feel hurt at the words themselves, or 
the accompanying expression. 

“ I shall be a mere looker-on. Miss Munro, and dare to disre- 
gard the caution which you bestow, though duly sensible of the 
kindness which gives it utterance. Perhaps, too, I may be of 
service in the way of peace-making. I have neither interest 
nor wish which could prompt me to any other course.” 

“ There is every need for caution among young travellers, 
sir; and though no astrologer, it seems to me your planet is full 
of unfavorable anguries. If you will be headstrong, see that 
you have your eyes about you. You have need of them both.” 

This was all in ly-play. The group had passed on, and a 
single nod of the head and a doubtful smile, on her part, con- 
cluded the brief diabgue we have just narrated. The youth 
was puzzled to unders'^and the significant warnings, which, from 
time to time, she had given him. He felt unconscious of any 
foe in particular, and though at that time sojourning with a 
people in whom he coiJd repose but little confidence, he yet 
sa,w no reason to apprehend any danger. If her manner and 
words had reference simply to the general lawlessness of the 
settlement, the precaution evidently conveyed no compliment to 
his own capacities for observ Jtion. Whatever might have been 
her motive, the youth felt its kindness ; and she rose not a little 
in his esteem, when he reflected with how much dignity and 
ladylike propriety she had given, to a comparative stranger, the 
counsel which she evidently thought necessary to his well-being. 
With a free vein he soon overviok Forrester, and with him 


TROUBLE AMONG THE TRESPASSERS. 159 

took liis place in the rear of the now rapidly-advancing .caval 
cade. 

As Forrester had conjectured, the command of the party, 
such as it was, was assigned to the landlord. There might have 
been something like forty or fifty men in all, the better portion 
of them mounted and well armed — some few on foot struggling 
to keep pace with the riders — all in high spirits, and indignant 
at the invasion • of what they considered their own. These, 
however, were not all hunters of the precious metal, and many 
of them, indeed, as the reader has by this time readily con- 
jectui’ed, carried on a business of very mixed complexion. 
The whole village — blacksmith, grocer, baker, and clothier 
included, turned out en masse, upon the occasion j for, with an 
indisputable position in political economy, deriving their gains 
directly or indirectly from this pursuit, the cause was, in fact, a 
cause in common. 

The scene of operations, in view of which they had now 
come, had to the eye all the appearance of a. moderate encamp- 
ment. The intruding force had done the business completely. 
They had made a full transfer, from their old to their new 
quarters, of bag and baggage; and had possessed themselves 
of all the log-houses in and about the disputed region. Their 
fires were in full heat, to use the frontier phrase, and the water 
was hissing in their kettles, and the dry thorns crackling under 
the pot. Never had usurpers made themselves more perfectly 
at home ; and the rage of the old incumbents was, of course, 
duly heightened at a prospect of so much ease and felicity en- 
joyed at their expense. 

The enemy were about equal in point of number with those 
whom they had so rudely dispossessed. They had, however, 
in addition to their disposable force, their entire assemblage of 
wives, children, slaves, and dependants, cattle and horses, 
enough, as Forrester bitterly remarked, “ to breed a famine in 
the land ” • They had evidently settled themselves for life, and 
the ousted party, conscious of the fact, prepared for the dernier 
resort. Everything on the part of the usurpers indicated a 
perfect state of preparedness for an issue which they never 
doubted would be made; and all the useless baggage, inter- 
spersed freely with rocks and fallen trees, had been well-era 


160 


GUY RIVERS. 


ployed in increasing the strength of a position for which, such 
an object considered, nature had already done much. The 
defences, as they now stood, precluded all chance of success 
from an attack by mounted men, unless the force so employed ' 
were overwhelming. The defenders stood ready at their posts, 
partly under cover, and so arrayed as easily to put themselves 
so, and were armed in very nearly the same manner with the 
assailing party. In this guise of formidable defence, they 
waited patiently the onset. 

There was a brief pause after their arrival, on the part of 
the invading force, which was employed principally in consul- 
tation as to the proper mode of procedure, and in examination 
of the ground. Their plan of attack, depending altogether 
upon the nature of circumstances yet to be seen, had not been 
deliberated upon before. The consultation lasted not long, 
however, and no man’s patience was too severely tried. Hav- 
ing deputed the command to the landlord, they left the matter 
pretty much to that person ; nor was their choice unhappy. 

Munro had been a partisan well-taught in Indian warfare, 
and it was said of him, that he knew quite as well how to prac- 
tise all their subtleties as themselves. The first object with 
him, therefore, in accordance with his reputation, was to devise 
some plot, by which not only to destroy the inequality of 
chances between the party assailing and that defending a post 
how almost impregnable, but to draw the latter entirely out of 
their defences. Still, it was deemed but courteous, or prudent 
at least, to see what could be done in the way of negotiation ; 
and their leader, with a white handkerchief attached to a 
young sapling, hewn down for the purpose, by way of apology 
for a flag, approached the he&ieged, and in front of his men 
demanded a conference with the usurping chief. 

The demand was readily and at once answered by the ap- 
pearance of the already named George Dexter; a man who, 
with little sagacity and but moderate cunning, had yet acquired 
a lead and notoriety among his fellows, even in that wild region, 
simply from the reckless boldness and fierce impetuosity of his 
character. It is useless to describe such a person. He was a 
ruffian — in look and manner, ruffianly — huge of frame, strong 
ind agile limb, and steeled against all fear, simply from a 


tfeOUBLE among the TRESPASSERS. . 101 

brute unconsciousness of all danger. There was little of pre^ 
liminary matter in this conference. Each knew his man, and 
the business in hand. All was direct, therefore, and to the 
point. Words were not to be wasted without corresponding 
fruits, though the colloquy began, on the part of Munro, in 
terms of the most accredited courtesy. 

“ W ell, George Dexter, a pleasant morning to you in your 
new accommodations. I see you have learned to make yourself 
perfectly at home when you visit your neighbors.” 

“Why, thank you, Wat — I generally do, I reckon, as you 
know of old. It’s not now, I’m inclined to think, that you’re 
to learn the ways of George Dexter. He’s a man, you see, 
Wat, that never has two ways about him.” 

“ That’s true, friend George,’ I must say that for you, were I 
to have to put it on your tombstone.” 

“ It’s a long ride to the Atlantic, Wat ; and the time is some- 
thing oflP yet, I reckon, when my friends will be after measuring 
me for a six-foot accommodation. But, look you, Wat, why 
are all your family here? — I did think, when I first saw them 
on the trail, some with their twisted and some with smooth 
bores, tomahawks, and scalping-knives, that they took us for 
Indians. If you hadn’t come forward now, civilly, I should 
have been for giving your boys some mutton-chops, by way of 
a cold cut.” 

“ Well, George, you may do that yet, old fellow, for here we 
have all come to take our Sunday dinner. You are not in the 
notion that, we shall let you take possession here so easily, 
without even sending us word, and paying us no rent — no com- 
pensation ?” 

“Why, no, Wat — I knew you and your boys too well for 
that. I did look, you see, to have a bit of a brush, and have 
made some few preparations to receive you with warmth and 
open arms,” was the response of Dexter, pointing as he spoke 
to the well-guarded condition of his intrenchments, and to his 
armed men, who were now thickly clustering about him. 

Munro saw plainly that this was no idle boast, and that the 
disposition of his enemy’s force, without some stratagem, set at 
defiance any attack under present circumstances. Still he did 
not despair, and taught in Indian warfare, such a position was 


162 


GUT RIVERS. 


the very one to bring out his energies and abilities. Falling 
back for a moment, he uttered a few words in the ear of one of 
his party, who withdrew unobserved from his companions, while 
he returned to the parley. 

“Well, George, I see, as you have said, that you have made 
some preparations to receive us, but they are not the prepara- 
ations that I like exactly, nor such as I think we altogether de- 
serve.” 

“ That may be, Wat — and I can’t help it. If you will invite 
yourselves to dinner, you must he content with what I put before 
you.” 

“ It is not a smart speech, Dexter, that will give you free walk 
on the high road ; and something is to be said about this pro- 
ceeding of yours, which, you must allow, is clearly in the teeth 
of all the practices prevailing among the people of the frontier. 
At the beginning, and before any of us knew the value of this 
or that spot, you chose your ground, and we chose ours. If you 
leave yours or we ours, then either of us may take possession 
— not without. Is not this the custom 1” 

“ T tell you what, Munro, I have not lived so long in the woods 
to listen to wind-guns, and if such is the kind of argument you 
bring us, your dumpy lawyer — what do you call him? — little 
Pippin, ought to have been head of your party. He will do it 
all day long — I’ve heard him myself, at the sessions, from mid- 
day till clean dark, and after all he said nothing.” 

“ If you mean to persuade yourself, George, that we shall do 
no more than talk for our lands and improvements, you are like 
ly to suffer something for your mistake.” 

“ Your ‘ lands and improvements !’ Well, now, I like that — 
that’s very good, and just like you. Now, Wat, not to put you 
to too much trouble, I’d like to look a little into your title to 
the lands; as to the improvements, they’re at your service 
whenever you think proper to send for them. There’s the old 
lumber-house — there’s the squatter’s house — there’s where the 
cow keeps, and there’s the hogsty, and half a dozen more, all 
of which you’re quite welcome to. I’m sure none of you want 
’em, boys — do you?” 

A hearty laugh, and cries in the negative, followed this some- 
what technical retort and reply of the speaker — since, in tres« 


TROUBLE AMONG THE TRESPASSERS. 

pass, according to tlie received forms of law, the first duty of 
the plaintiff is to establish his own title. 

“ Then, George, you are absolutely bent on having us show 
our title ? You won’t deliver up peaceably, and do justice V* 

“Can’t think of such a thing — we find the quarters hero 
quite too comfortable, and have come too far to be in a hurry to 
return. We are tired, too, Wat ; and it’s not civil in you to 
make such a request. When you can say ‘ must’ to us, we shall 
hear you, but not till then ; so, my old fellow, if you be not sat- 
isfied, why, the sooner we come to short sixes the better,” was 
the response of the desperado. 

The indifferent composure with which he uttered a response 
which was in fact the signal for bloodshed, not less than the 
savage ferocity of his preparations generally, amply sustained 
his pretension to this appellative. Munro knew his man too 
well not to perceive that to this “ fashion must they come at 
last and simply assuring Dexter that he would submit his de- 
cision to his followers, he retired back upon the anxious and in- 
dignant party, who had heard a portion, and now eagerly and 
angrily listened to the rest of the detail. 

Having gone over the matter, he proceeded to his arrange- 
ments for the attack with all the coolness, and certainly much 
of tlie conduct of a veteran. In many respects he truly de- 
served the character of one; his courage was unquestionable, 
and aroused ; though he still preserved his coolness, even when 
coupled with the vindictive ferocity of the savage. His expe- 
rience in all the modes of warfare, commonly known to the 
white man and Indian alike, in the woods, was complete ; 
everything, indeed, eminently fitted and prepared him for the 
duties which, by common consent, had been devolved upon him. 
He now called them around him, under a clump of trees and 
brushwood which concealed them from sight, and thus ad- 
dressed them, in a style and language gi*aduated to their pur- 
suits and understandings : — 

“ And now, my fine fellows, you see it is just as I told you all 
along. You will have to fight for it, and with no half spirit. 
You must just use all your strength and skill in it, and a little 
cunning besides. We have to deal with a man who would just 
as lief fight as eat; indeed, he prefers it. As he says himselfi 


164 


GUT RIVEKS. 


«r 

there’s no two ways about him. He will come to the scratch 
himself, and make everybody else do so. So, then, you see 
what’s before you. It’s no child’s play. They count more men 
than we — not to speak of their entrenchments and shelter. W e 
must dislodge them if we can ; and to begin, I have a small con- 
trivance in my head which may do some good. I want two 
from among you to go upon a nice business. I must have men 
quick of foot, keen of sight, and cunning as a black-snake ; and 
they mustn’t be afraid of a knock on the head either. Shall I 
have my men ?” 

There was no difficulty in this, and the leader was soon pro- 
vided. He selected two from among the applicants for this dis- 
tinction, upon whose capacities he thought he could best rely, 
and led them away from the party into the recess of the wood, 
where he gave them their directions, and then returned to the 
main body. He now proceeded to the division, into small par- 
ties, of his whole force — placing them under guides rather than 
leaders, and reserving to himself the instruction and command 
of the whole. There was still something to be done, and con- 
ceiving this to be a good opportunity for employing a test, al- 
ready determined upon, he approached Ralph Colleton, v/ho 
surveyed the whole affair with intense curiosity. 

“ And now, young ’squire, you see what we’re driving at, and 
as our present business wo’nt permit of neutrality, let us hear 
on which side you stand. Are you for us or against us 

The question was one rather of command than solicitation, 
but the manner of the speaker was sufficiently deferential. 

- “ I see not why you should ask the question, sir. I have no 
concern in your controversy — I know not its merits, and pro- 
pose simply to content myself with the position of a spectator. 
1 presume there is nothing offensive, in such a station.” 

“ There may be, sir ; and you know that when people’s 
blood’s up, they don’t 'stand on trifles. They are not quick to 
discriminate between foes and neutrals ; and, to speak the truth, 
we are apt, in this part of the country, to look upon the two, at 
such moments, as the same. You will judge, therefore, for your- 
self, of the risk you run.” 

• “ I always do, Mr. Munro,” said the youth. “ I can not see 
that the risk is very considerable at this moment, for I am at a 


TROUBLE AMONG THE TRESPASSERS. 


165 


loss to perceive the policy of your making an enemy of me, 
when you have already a sufficient number to contend with in 
yonder barricade. Should your men, in their folly, determine 
to do so, I am not unprepared, and I think not unwilling, to 
defend myself.” 

“Ay, ay — I forgot, sir, you are from Carolina, where they 
make nothing of swallowing Uncle Sam for a lunch. It is very 
well, sir ; you take your risk, and will abide the consequences 
though I look not to find you when the fray begins.” 

“ You shall not provoke me, sir, by your sneer ; and may as- 
sure yourself, if it will satisfy you, that though I v/ill not fight 
for you, I shall have no scruple of putting a bullet through the 
scull of the first ruffian who gives me the least occasion to do so.” 

The youth spoke indignantly, but the landlord appeared not 
to regard the retort. Turning to the troop, which had been 
decorously attentive, he bade them follow, saying 

“ Come on, boys — we shall have to do without the stranger ; 
he does not fight, it seems, for the fun of the thing. If Pippin 
was here, doubtless, we should have arguments enough from the 
pair to keep iJicm in whole bones, at least, if nobody else.” 

A laugh of bitter scorn followed the remark of Munro, as the 
party went on its way. 

Though inwardly assured of the propriety of his course, 
Ralph could not help biting his lip with the mortification he 
felt from this circumstance, and which he was compelled to sup- 
press ; and we hazard nothing in the assertion when we say, 
that, had his sympathies been at all enlisted with the assailing 
party, the sarcasm of its leader would have hurried him into the 
very first rank of attack. As it was, such was its influence upon 
him, that, giving spur to his steed, he advanced to a position 
which, while it afforded him a clear survey of the whole field, 
exposed his person not a little to the shot of either party, as 
well from without as from within the beleaguered district. 

The invading force soon commenced the affair. They came 
to the attack after the manner of the Indians. The nature of 
forest-life, and its necessities, of itself teaches this mode of war- 
fare. Each man took his tree, his bush, or stump, approaching 
from cover to cover until within rifle-reach, then patiently wait- 
ing until an exposed head, a side or shoulder, leg or arm, gave 


166 


GUY RIVERS. 


an opportunity for the exercise of his skill in marksmanship 
To the keen-sighted and quick, rather than to the strong, is the 
victory; and it will not be wondered at, if, educated thus in 
daily adventure, the hunter is enabled to detect the slightest 
and most transient exhibition, and by a shot, which in most 
cases is fatal, to avail himself of the indiscretion of his enemy. 
If, however, this habit of life begets skill in attack and destruc- 
tion, it has not the less beneficial effect in creating a like skill 
and ingenuity in the matter of defence. In this way we shall 
account for the limited amount of injury done in the Indian 
wars, in proportion to the noise and excitement which they 
make, and the many terrors they occasion. 

The fight had now begun in this manner, and, both parties 
being at the outset studiously well sheltered, with little or no 
injury — the shot doing no more harm to the enemy on either 
side than barking the branch of the tree or splintering the rock 
-^behind which they happened individually to be sheltered. In 
this fruitless manner the affray had for a little time been carried 
on, without satisfaction to any concerned, when Munro was be- 
held advancing, with the apology for a flag which he had used 
before, toward thebeleaguered^ortress. The parley he called 
for was acceded to, and Dexter again made his appearance. 

‘'What, tired already, Wat? The game is, to be sure, a shy 
one; but have patience, old fellow — we shall be at close' quar- 
ters directly.” 

It was now the time for Munro to practise the subtlety which 
he had designed, and a reasonable prospect of success he prom- 
ised himself from the bull-headed stupidity of his opponent. 
He had planned a stratagem, upon which parties, as we have 
seen, were despatched; and he now calculated his own move- 
ment in concert with theirs. It was his object to protract the 
parley which he had begun, by making propositions for an ar- 
rangement which, from a perfect knowledge of the men he had 
to deal with, he felt assured would not be listened to. In the 
meantime, pending the negotiation, each party left its cover, 
and, while they severally preserved their original relationships, 
and were so situated as, at a given signal, to regain their posi- 
tions, they drew nearer to one another, and in some instances 
began a conversation. Munro was cautious yet quick in the 


ITXJBLE AMONG THE TRESPASSERS. 


16T 


discussion, and, while his opponent with rough sarcasms taunted 
him upon the strength of his own position, and the utter inade- 
quacy of his strength to force it, he contented himself with sun- 
dry exhortations to a peaceable arrangement — to a giving up 
of the possessions they had usurped, and many other sugges- 
tions of a like nature, which he well knew would be laugdied 
at and rejected. Still, the object was in part attained. The 
invaders, becoming more confident of their strength from this 
almost virtual abandonment of their first resort by their oppo- 
nents, grew momently less and less cautious. The rifle was 
rested against the rock, the sentinel took out his tobacco, and 
the two parties were almost interaiingled. 

At length the hour had come. A wild and sudden shriek 
from that part of the beleaguered district in which the women 
and children were congregated, drew all eyes in that direction 
where the whole line of tents and dwellings were in a bright 
conflagration. The emissaries had done their work ably and 
well, and the devastation was complete ; while the women and 
children, driven from their various sheltering-places, ran shriek- 
ing in every direction. Nor did Munro, at this time, forget his 
division of the labor : the opportunity was in his grasp, and it 
was not suffered to escape him. As the glance of Dexter was 
turned in the direction of the flames, he forgot his precaution, 
and the moment was not lost. Availing himself of the occasion, 
Munro dashed his flag of truce into the face of the man with 
whom he had parleyed, and, in the confusion which followed, 
seizing him around the body with a strength equal to his own, 
he dragged him, along with himself, over the low table of rock 
on wdiich they had both stood, upon the soft earth below. Here 
they grappled with each other, neither having arms, and relying 
solely upon skill and muscle. 

The movement was too sudden, the surprise too complete, 
not to give an ascendency to the invaders, of which they readily 
availed themselves. The possession of the fortress was now in 
fact divided between them j and a mutual consciousness of their 
relative equality determined the two parties, as if by common 
consent, quietly to behold the result of the affair between the 
leaders. ^J'hey had once recovered their feet, but were both 
of them again down, Munro being uppermost. Every artifice 


168 


GUY R1VKR!=. 


known to tlie lust)^ wrestlers of tins region was put in exercise, 
and the struggle was variously contested. At one time the as- 
cendency was clearly with the one, at another moment it was 
transferred to his opponent; victory, like some shy arbiter, 
seeming unwilling to fix the palm, from an eq^ual regard for 
both the claimants. Munro still had tl.e advantage ; but a mo- 
mentary pause of action, and a sudden evolution of his antago- 
nist, now materially altered their position, and Dexter, wkh 
the sinuous agility of the snake, winding himself completely 
around his opponent, now whirled him suddenly over and 
brought himself upon him. Extricating his arms with admira- 
ble skill, he was enabled to regain his knee, which was now 
closely pressed upon the bosom of the prostrate man, who strug- 
gled, but in vain, to free himself from the position. 

The face of the ruffian, if we may so call the one in contra- 
distinction to the other, was black with fury ; and Munro felt 
that his violation of the flag of truce was not likely to have any 
good effect upon his destiny. Hitherto, beyond the weapons 
of nature’s furnishing, they had been unarmed. The case was 
no longer so ; for Dexter, having a momentary use of his hand, 
provided himself with a huge dirk-knife, guarded by a string 
which hung around his neck, and was usually worn in his bo- 
som : a sudden jerk threw it wide, and fixed the blade with a 
spring. 

It was a perilous moment for the fallen man, for the glance 
of the victor, apart from the action, indicated well the vindictive 
spirit within him ; and the landlord averted his eyes, though he 
did not speak, and upraised his hands as if to ward off the blow. 
The friends of Munro now hurried to his relief, but the stroke 
was already descending — when, on a sudden, to the surprise 
of all, the look of Dexter was turned from the foe beneath him, 
and fixed upon the hills in the distance — his blow was arrested 
— his grasp relaxed — he released his enemy, and ros§ sullenly 
to his feet, leaving his antagonist unharmed. 


NEW PARTIES THE CONFLICt. 


CHAPTER IX. 

NEW PARTIES TO THE CONFLICT. 

This sudden and unlooked-for escape of Munro, from a fate 
held so inevitable as well by himself as all around him, was not 
more a matter of satisfaction than surprise with that experienced 
personage. He did not deliberate long upon his release, how- 
ever, before recovering his feet, and resuming his former bellig- 
erent attitude. 

The circumstance to which he owed the unlooked-for and 
most unwonted forbearance of his enemy was quickly revealed . 
Following the now common direction of all eyes, he discerned 
a body of mounted and armed men, winding on their way to 
the encampment, in whose well-known uniform he recognised a 
detachment of the “ Georgia Guard,” a troop kept, as they all 
well knew, in the service of the state, for the purpose not mere- 
ly of breaking up the illegal and unadvised settlements of the 
squatters upon the frontiers, upon lands now known to be val- 
uable, but also of repressing and punishing their frequent out- 
lawries. Such a course had become essential to the repose and 
protection of the more quiet and more honest adventurer whose 
possessions they not only entered upon and despoiled, but whose 
lives, in numerous instances, had been made to pay the penalty 
of their enterprise. Such a force could alone meet the exigen- 
cy, in a country where the sheriff dared not often show himself; 
and, thus accoutred, and with full authority, the guard, either 
en masse, or in small divisions like the present, was employed, 
at all times, in scouring, though without any great success, the 
infested districts. 

The body now approaching was readily distinguishable, 
though yet at a considerable distance — the road over which it 

S 


?jVFRa. 


no 


came lying upon a long riJge of bald an 1 elevated rocks. Its 
number was not large, comprising not more than forty persons ; 
but, as the squatters were most commonly distrustful of one 
another, not living together or in much harmony, and having 
hut seldom, as in the present instance, a community of interest 
or unity of purpose, such a force was considered adequate to all 
the duties assigned it. There was but little of th*e pomp or 
circums!,iin«"o ''f ir'litary array in their appearance or approach. 
Though dtcpce^v uniformly the gray and plain stufPs which they 
wore were n e in unison with the habit of the hunter than the 
warrior; an 3, as in that country, the rifle is familiar as a 
household thing, the encounter with an individual of the troop 
would perhaps call for no remark. The plaintive note of a 
single bugle, at intervals reverberating wildly among the hills 
over which the party wound its way, more than anything beside, 
indicated its character ; and even this accompaniment is so fa- 
miliar as an appendage with the southron — so common, par- 
ticularly to the negroes, who acquire a singular and sweet mas- 
tery over it, while driving their wagons through the woods, or 
poling their boats down the streams, that one might fairly doubt, 
with all these symbols, whether the advancing array were in 
fact more military than civil in its character. They rode on 
briskly in the direction of our contending parties — the sound of 
the bugle seeming not only to enliven, but to shape their course, 
since the stout negro who gave it breath rode considerably 
ahead of the troop. 

Among the squatters there was but little time for deliberation, 
yet never were their leaders more seriously in doubt as to the 
course most proper for their adoption in the common danger. 
They well knew the assigned duties of the guard, and felt their 
peril. It was necessary for the common safety — or, rather, the 
common spoil — that something should be determined upon imme- 
diately. They were now actually in arms, and could no longer, 
appearing individually and at privileged occupations, claim to 
be unobnoxious to the laws ; and it need occasion no surprise 
in the reader, if, among a people of the class we have described, 
the measures chosen in the present exigency were of a charac- 
ter the most desperate and reckless. Dexter, whose recent 


NEW PARTIES TO THE CONFLICT. 


171 


triumph gave him something in the way of a title to speak first, 
thus delivered himself : — 

“Well, Munro — you may thank the devil and the Georgia 
guard for getting you out of that scrape. You owe both of 
them more now than you ever calculated to owe them. Had 
they not come in sight just at the lucky moment, my ki jfe 
would have made mighty small work with your windpipe, I tc-l 
you — it did lie so tempting beneath it.” 

“Yes-»— I thought myself a gone chick under that spur, 
George, and so I believe thought all about us ; and when you 
put off the finishing stroke so suddenly, I took it for granted that 
you had seen the devil, or some other matter equally frightful,” 
was the reply of Munro, in a spirit and style equally unique 
and philosophical with that which preceded it. 

“ Why, it was something, though not the devil, bad enough 
for us in all conscience, as you know just as well as I. The 
Georgia guard won’t give much time for a move.” 

“ Bad enough, indeed, though I certainly ought not to com- 
plain of their appearance,” was the reply of Munro, whose 
recent escape seemed to run more in his mind than any other 
subject. He proceeded : — 

“ But this isn’t the first time I’ve had a chance so narrow for 
my neck ; and more than once it has been said to me, that the 
man born for one f^te can’t be killed by another ; but when you 
had me down and your knife over me, I began to despair of 
my charm.” 

“You should have double security for it now, Wat, and so 
keep your prayers till you see the cross timbers, and the twisted 
trouble. There’s something more like business in hand now, 
and seeing that we shan’t be able to fight one another, as we 
intended, all that we can do now is to make friends as fast as 
possible, and prepare to fight somebody else.” 

“ You think just as I should in this matter, and that certainly 
is the wisest policy left us. It’s a common cause we have to 
take care of, for I happen to know that Captain Fullam — and 
this I take to be his troop — has orders from the governor to 
see to us all, and clear the lands in no time. The state, it ap- 
pears, thinks the land quite too good for such as we, and takes 
this mode of telling us so. NoW> as 1 care very little about the 


172 


GUI RIVERS. 


state— it has never done me any good, and I have alwayi been 
able to take care of myself without it — I feel just in the hu- 
mor, if all parties are willing, to have a tug in the matter before 
I draw stakes/' 

'‘That’s just my notion, Wat; and d — n ’em, if the boys are 
only true to the hub, we can row this guard up salt river in no 
time and less. Look you now — let’s put the thing on a good 
footing, and have no further disturbance. Put all the boys on 
shares — equal shares — in the diggings, and we’ll club strength, 
and can easily manage these chaps. There’s no reason, indeed, 
why we shouldn’t; for if we don’t fix them, we are done up, 
every man of us. We have, as you see and have tried, a pretty 
st^'ong fence round us, and, if our men stand to it, and I see not 
why they shouldn’t, Fullam can’t touch us with his squad of 
fifty, ay, and a hundred to the back of ’em.” 

The plan was feasible enough in the eyes of men to whom 
ulterior consequences were as nothing in comparison with the 
excitement of the strife ; and even the most scrupulous among 
them were satisfied, in a little time, and with few arguments, 
that they had nothing to gain and everything to lose by retiring 
from the possessions in which they had toiled so long. There 
was nothing popular in the idea of a state expelling them from 
a soil of which it made no use itself; and few among the per- 
sons composing the array had ever given themselves much if 
any trouble, in ascertaining the nice, and with them entirely 
metaphysical distinction, between the mme and thine of the 
matter. Tlie proposition, therefore, startled none, and prudence 
having long since withdrawn from their counsels, not a dissent- 
ing voice was heard to the suggestion of a union between the 
two parties for the purpose of common defence. The terms, 
recognising all of both sides, as upon an equal footing in the 
profits of the soil, were soon arranged and completed ; and in 
the space of a few moments, and before the arrival of the new- 
comers, the hostile forces, side by side, stood up for the new 
contest as if there had never been any other than a community 
of interest and feeling between them. A few words of en- 
couragement and cheer, given to their several commands by 
Munro and Dexter, were scarcely necessary, for what risk had 
their adherents to run— what to fear— what to lose? The 


NEW PARTIES TO THE CONFLICT. 


173 


courage of the dcspera-do invariably increases in proportion to 
his irresponsibility. In fortune, as utterly destitute as in 
character, they had, in most respects, already forfeited the 
shelter, as in numberless instances they had not merely gone 
beyond the sanction, but had violated and defied the express 
interdict, of the laws : and now, looking, as such men are apt 
most usually to do, only to the immediate issue, and to nothing 
beyond it, the banditti — for such they were — with due deliber- 
ation and such a calm of disposition as might well comport with 
a life of continued excitement, proceeded again, most desper- 
ately, to set them at defiance. 

The military came on in handsome style. They were all 
fine-looking men ; natives generally of a state, the great body 
of whose population are well-formed, and distinguished by 
features of clear, open intelligence. They were well-mounted, 
and each man carried a short rifle, a sword, and pair of pistols. 
They rode in single file, following their commander ; a gentle- 
man, in person, of great manliness of frame, possessed of much 
grace and ease of action. They formed at command, readily, 
in front of the post, which may be now said to have assumed 
the guise of a regular military station ; and Fullam, the captam, 
advancing with much seeming surprise in his countenance and 
manner, addressed the squatters generally, without reference to 
the two leaders, who stood forth as representatives of their 
several divisions. 

“ How is this, my good fellows 1 what is meant by your 
present military attitude ? Why are you, on the sabbath, mus- 
tering in this guise — surrounded by barricades, arms in your 
hands, and placing sentinels on duty. What does all this 
mean V* 

“We carry arms,” replied Dexter, without pause, “ because 
it suits us to do so ; we fix barricades to keep out intruders ; 
our sentinels have a like object ; and if by attitude you mean 
our standing here and standing there — why, I don’t see in 
what the thing concerns anybody but ourselves i” 

“Indeed!” said the Georgian; “you bear it bravely, sir. 
But it is not to you only that I speak. Am I to understand 
you, good people, as assembled here for the purpose of resisting 
the laws of the land ?” 


174 


GtTY RlVEiiS. 


“We don’t know, captain, what you mean exactly by the 
laws of the land,” was the reply of Munro ; “ hut, I must say, 
we are here, as you see us now, to defend our property, which 
the laws have no right to take from us — none that I can see.” 

“ So ! and is that your way of thinking, sir ; and pray who 
are you that answer so freely for your neighbors?” 

“ One, sir, whom my neighbors, it seems, have appointed to 
answer for them.” 

“ I am then to understand, sir, that you have expressed their 
determination on this subject, and that your purpose is resist- 
ance to any process of the state compelling you to leave these 
possessions !” 

“ You have stated their resolution precisely,” was the reply. 
“ They had notice that unauthorized persons, hearing of our 
prosperity, were making preparations to take them from us by 
force ; and they prepared for resistance. When we know the 
proper authorities, we shall answer fairly — but not till then.” 

“ Truly, a very manful determination ; and, as you have so 
expressed yourself, permit me to exhibit my authority, which I 
doubt not you will readily recognise. This instrument requires 
yotl, at once, to remove from these lands — entirely to forego 
their use and possession, and within forty-eight hours to yield 
them up to the authority which now claims them at your 
hands.” Here the officer proceeded to read all those portions 
of his commission to which he referred, with considerable show 
of patience. 

“All that’s very well in your hands, and from your mouth, 
good sir ; but how know we that the document you bear is not 
forged and faise — and that you, with your people there, have 
not got up this fetch to trick us out of those possessions which 
you have not the heart to light for? We’re up to trap, you 
see.” 

With this insolent speech, Dexter contrived to show his im- 
patience of the paidey, and that brutal thirst which invariably 
prompted him to provoke and seek for extremities. The eye 
of the Georgian flashed out indignant fires, and his fingers in- 
stinctively grasped the pistol at his holster, while the strongly- 
aroused expression of his features indicated the wrath within 
With a strong and successful effort, however, though inwardly 


NEW PARTIES TO THE CONFLICT. 


175 


chafed at the necessity of forbearance, he contrived, for a while 
longer, to suppress any more decided evidence of emotion, while 
he replied : — 

“ Your language, sirrah, whatever you may be, is ruffianly 
and insolent ; yet, as I represent the country and not myself in 
this business, and as I would perform my duties without harsh- 
ness, I pass it by. I am not bound to satisfy you, or any of 
your company, of the truth of the commission under which I 
act. It is quite enough if I myself am satisfied. Still, how- 
ever, for the same reas(m which keeps me from punishing your 
insolence, and to keep you fn^m any treasonable opposition to 
the laws, you too shall be satisfied. Look here, for yourselves, 
good people — you all know the great seal of the state !” 

lie now held up the document from which he had read, and 
which contained his authority ; the broad seal of the state dan- 
gling from the parchment, distinctly in the sight of the whole 
gang. Dexter approached somewhat nearer, as if to obtain a 
more perfect view ; and, while the Georgian, without suspicion, 
seeing his advance, and supposing that to be his object, held it 
more toward him, the ruffian, with an active and sudden bound, 
tore it from his hands, and leaping, followed by all his group, 
over his defences, was in a moment close under cover, and out 
of all danger. Rising from his concealment, however, in the 
presence of the officer, he tore the instrument into atoms, and 
dashing them toward their proprietor, exclaimed — 

“ Now, captain, what’s the worth of your authority ? Be off 
now in a hurry, or I shall fire upon you in short order !” 

V/e may not describe the furious anger of the Georgian. Ir- 
ritated beyond the control of a proper caution, he precipitately 
— and without that due degree of deliberation which must have 
taught him the madness and inefficacy of any assault by his 
present force upon an enemy so admirably disposed of — gave 
the command to fire ; and after the ineffectual discharge, which 
had no other result than to call forth a shout of derision from 
the besieged, he proceeded to charge the barrier, himself fear- 
lessly leading the way. The first effort to break through the 
barricades was sufficient to teach him the folly of the design 
and a discharge from the defences bringing down two of his 
men, warned him of the necessity of duly retrieving his error 


176 


GUY RIVERS. 


He saw the odds, and retreated with order and in good conduct, 
until he sheltered the whole troop under a long hill, within rifle- 
shot of the enemy, whence, suddenly filing a detachment oh- 
lic[uely to the left, he made his arrangements for the passage of 
a narrow gorge, having something of the character of a road, 
and, though excessively broken and uneven, having been fre- 
quently used as such. It wound its way to the summit of a 
large hill, which stood parallel with the defences, and fully com- 
manded them ; and the descent of the gorge, on the opposite 
side, afforded him as good an opportunity, in a charge, of riding 
the squatters down, as the summit for picking them off singly 
with his riflemen. 

He found the necessity of great circumspection, however, in 
the brief sample of controversy already given him ; and with a 
movement in front, therefore, of a number of his force — suffi- 
cient, by employing the attention of the enemy in that quarter, 
to cover and disguise his present endeavor — he marshalled fif- 
teen of his force apart from the rest, leading them himself, as 
the most difficult enterprise, boldly up the narrow pass. The 
skirmishing was still suffered, therefore, to continue on the 
ground where it had begun, whenever a momentary exposure 
of the person of besieged or besieger afforded any chance for a 
successful shot. Nor was this game very hazardous to either 
party. The beleaguered force, as we have seen, was well pro- 
tected. The assailants, having generally dismounted, their 
horses being placed out of reach of danger, had, in the manner 
of their opponents, taken the cover of the rising ground, or the 
fallen tree, and in this way, awaiting the progress of events, 
were shielded from unnecessary exposure. It was only when a 
position became awkward or irksome, that the shoulder or the 
leg of the unquiet man thrust itself too pertinaciously above its 
shelter, and got barked or battered by a bullet ; and as all par- 
ties knew too well the skill of their adversaries, it was not often 
that a shoulder or leg became so indiscreetly prominent. 

As it was, however, the squatters, from a choice of ground, 
and a perfect knowledge of it, together with the additional 
guards and defences which they had been enabled to place upon 
it, had evidently the advantage. Still, no event, calculated to 
impress either party with any decisive notion of the result, had 


NEW PARTIES TO THE CONFLICT. 


177 


yet taken place ; and beyond tbe injury done to the assailants 
in their first ill-advised assault, they had sufifered no serious 
harm. They were confident in themselves and their leader — 
despised the squatters heartily — and, indeed, did not suffer 
themselves for a moment to think of the possibility of their 
defeat. 

Thus the play proceeded in front of the defences, while Ful- 
1am silently and industriously plied his way up the narrow 
gorge, covered entirely from sight by the elevated ridges of 
rock, which, rising up boldly on either side of the pass, had 
indeed been the cause of its formation. But his enemy was on 
the alert; and the cunning of Munro — whom his companions, 
with an Indian taste, had entitled the “Black Snake” — had 
already prepared for the reception of the gallant Georgian. 
With a quick eye he had observed the diminished numbers of 
the force in front, and readily concluded, from the sluggishness 
of the affair in that quarter, that a finesse was in course of prep- 
aration. Conscious, too, from a knowledge of the post, that 
there Avas but a single mode of enfilading his defences, he had 
made his provision for the guardianship of the all-important 
point. Nothing was more easy than the defence of this pass, 
the ascent being- considerable, rising into a narrow gorge, and 
as suddenly and in like manner descending on the point oppo- 
site that on which Fullam was toiling up his way. In addition 
to this, the gulley was winding and brokenly circuitous — now 
making a broad sweep of the circle — then terminating in a zig- 
zag and cross direction, Avhich, until the road was actually 
gained, seemed to have no outlet; and at no time was the 
advancing force enabled to survey the pass for any distance 
ahead. 

Everything in the approach of the Georgian was conducted 
with the pr'ofoundest silence: not the slightest whisper indi- 
cated to the assailants the presence or prospect of any interrup-. 
tion ; and, from the field of strife below, nothing but an occa- 
sional shot or shout gave token of the business in which at that 
moment all parties were engaged. This quiet was not destined 
to continue long. The forlorn hope had now reached midway 
of the summit — but not, as their leader had fondly anticipated, 
without observation from the foe — when the sound of a human 

%* 


178 


GUY RIVERS. 


voice directly above warned him of liis error ; and, looking up, 
he beheld, perched upon a fragment of the cliff, which hung 
directly over the gorge, the figure of a single man. For the 
first time led to anticipate resistance in this quarter, he bade 
the men prepare for the event as well as they might ; and calling 
out imperatively to the individual, who still maintained his place 
on the projection of the rock as if in defiance, he bade him throw 
down his arms and submit. 

“ Throw down my arms ! and for what was the reply. 
“ I’d like to know by what right you require us to throw down 
our arms. It may do in England, or any other barbarous coun- 
try where the people don’t know their rights yet, to make them 
throw down their arms ; but I reckon there’s no law for it in 
these parts, that you can show us, captain.” 

“ Pick that insolent fellow off, one of you,” was the order ; 
and in an instant a dozen rifles were lifted, but the man was 
gone. A hat appearing above the cliff, was bored with several 
bullets ; and the speaker, who laughed heartily at the success 
of his trick, now resumed his position on the cliff, with the luck- 
less hat perched upon the staff on which it had given them the 
provocation to fire. He laughed and shouted heartily at the 
contrivance, and hurled the victim of their wasted powder down 
among them. Much chagrined, and burning with indignation, 
Fullam briefly cried out to his men to advance quickly. The 
person who had hitherto addressed him was our old acquaint- 
ance Forrester, to whom, in the division of the duties, this post 
had been assigned. He spoke again : — 

“ You’d better not, captain, I advise you. It will be danger- 
ous if you come farther. Don’t trouble us, now, and be off, as 
soon as you can, out of harm’s way. Your bones will be all 
the better for it ; and I declare I don’t like to hurt such a fine- 
looking chap if I can possibly avoid it. Now take a friend’s 
advice ; ’twill be all the better for you, I tell you.” 

The speaker evidently meant well, so far as it was possible 
for one to mean well who was commissioned to do, and was, in 
fact, doing ill. The Georgian, however, only the more indig- 
nant at the impertinence of the address, took the following no- 
tice of it, uttered ih the same breath with an imperative com- 
tnaiid to hia otvn tneu to hasten their advance 


NEW PARTIES TO THE CONFLICT. 179 

“ Disperse yourselves, scoundrels, and throw down your arms ! 
— on the instant disperse ! Lift a hand, or pull a trigger upon 
us, and every man shall dangle upon the branches of the first 
tree !” 

As he spoke, leading the way, he drove his rowels into the 
sides of his animal ; and, followed by his troop, bounded fear- 
lessly up the gorg^. 


GUY RIVERS, 




CHAPTER XIV. 

CATASTROPHE — COLLET N’S DISCOVERY. 

It is time to return to Ralph Colleton, who has quite too 
long escaped our consideration. The reader will doubtless re- 
member, with little difficulty, where and under what circum- 
stances we left him. Provoked by the sneer, and sarcasm of the 
man 'vvhom at the same moment he most cordially despised, we 
have seen him taking a position in the controversy, in which 
his person, though not actually within the immediate sphere of 
action, was nevertheless not a little exposed to some of its risks. 
This position, with fearless indifference, he continued to main- 
tain, unshrinkingly and without interruption, throughout the 
whole period and amid all the circumstances of the conflict. 
There was something of a b* yish de.,ei -anafcion in this way to 
assert his courage, which his own sense in'-' T rebuked ; yet 
such is the nature of those peculiarities in southern habits and 
opinions, to which we have already referred, on all matters 
which relate to personal prowess and a masculine defiance of 
danger, that, even while entertaining the most profound con- 
tempt for those in whose eye the exhibition was made, he was 
not sufficiently independent of popular opinion to brave its cur- 
rent when he himself was its subject. He may have had an 
additional motive for this proceeding, which most probably en- 
forced its necessity. He well knew that fearless courage, among 
this people, was that quality which most certainly woii and se 
cured their respect ; and the policy was not unwise, perhaps - 
which represented this as a good opportunity for a display which ' 
might have the effect of protecting him from wanton insult or 
aggression hereafter. To a certain extent he was at their mer- 
«y j and omscious, from what he had seen, of the unscrupulous ^ 


Catastrophe — Colleton’s disco very. 


181 


character of their minds, every exhibition of the kind had some 
weight in his favor. 

It was with a lively and excited spirit that he surveyed, from 
the moderate eminence on which he stood, the events going on 
around him. Though not sufficiently near the parties (and 
scrupulous not to expose himself to the ‘chance of being for a 
moment supposed to be connected with cither of them) to ascer- 
tain their various arrangements, from what had met his obser- 
vation, he had been enabled to form a very correct inferenew as 
to the general progress of affairs. He had beheld the proceed- 
ings of each array while under cover, and contending with one 
another, to much the same advantage as the spectator who sur- 
veys the game in which two persons are at play. He could 
have pointed out the mistakes of both in the encounter he had 
witnessed, and felt assured that he could have ably and easily 
amended them. His frame quivered with the “ rapture of the 
strife,” as Attila is said to have called the excitation of battle ; 
and his blood, with a genuine southern fervor, rushed to and 
from his heart with a bounding impulse, as some new achieve- 
ment of one side or the other added a fresh interest to, and in 
some measure altered the face of, the affair. But when he be- 
held the new array, so unexpectedly, yet auspiciously for 
Munro, make its appearance upon the field, the excitement of 
his spirit underwent proportionate increase; and with deep 
anxiety, and a sympathy now legitimate with the assailants, he 
surveyed tlie progress of an affray for which his judgment pre- 
pared him to anticipate a most unhappy termination. As the 
strife proceeded, he half forgot his precaution, and unconscious- 
ly continued, at every moment, to approach more nearly to the 
scene of strife. His heart was now all impulse, his spirit all 
enthusiasm ; and with an unquiet eye and restless frame, he be- 
held the silent passage of the little detachment under the gallant 
Georgian, up the narrow gorge. At some distance from the hill, 
and on an eminence, his position enabled him to perceive, when 
the party had made good their advance nearly to the summit, 
the impending danger. He saw the threatening cliff, hanging 
as it were in mid air above them ; and all his sympathies, warm- 
ly excited at length by the fearfulness of the peril into a degree 
of active partisanship v Inch, at the beginning, a proper prudence 


182 


GUY RIVEHS. 


had well couuselled him to avoid, he put spurs to his steed, and 
rushing forward to the foot of the hill, shouted out to the advan- 
cing party the nature of the danger which awaited them. He 
shouted strenuously, but in vain — and with a feeling almost 
amounting to agony, he beheld the little troop resolutely ad- 
vance beneath the ponderous rock, which, held in its place by 
the slightest purchase, needed but the most moderate effort to 
upheave and unfix it for ever. 

It was fortunate for th3 youth that the situation in which he 
stood was concealed entirely from the view of those in the en- 
campment. It had been no object with him to place himself in 
safety, for the consideration of his own chance of exposure had 
never been looked to in his mind, when, under the noble im- 
pulse of humanity, he had rushed forward, if possible, to recall 
the little party, who either did not or were unwilling to hear 
his voice of warning and prevention. Had he been beheld, 
there would have been few of the squatters unable, and still 
fewer unwilling, to pick him off with thek rifles ; and, as the 
event will show, the good Providence alone which had hitherto 
kept with him, rather than the forbearance of his quondam ac 
quaintance, continued to preserve his life. 

Apprized of the* ascent of the pass, and not disposed to permit 
of the escape of those whom the defenders of it above might 
spare, unobserved by his assailants in front, Dexter, with a 
small detachment, sallying through a loophole of his fortress, 
took an oblique course toward the foot of the gorge, by which 
to arrest the flight of the fugitives. This course brought him 
directly upon, and in contact with, Ralph, who stood immedi- 
ately at its entrance, with uplifted eye, and busily engaged in 
sheuting, at intervals, to the yet advancing assailants. The 
squatters approached cautiously and unperceived ; for so deep- 
ly was the youth interested in the fate of those for whom his 
voice and hands were alike uplifted, that he was conscious of 
nothing else at that moment of despair and doubt. The very 
silence which at that time hung over all things, seemed of itself 
tc cloud and obstruct, while they lulled the senses into a corre- 
sponding slumber. 

It was well for the youth, and unlucky for the assassin, that, 
as Dexter, with his uplifted hatchet — for fire-arms at that peri 


CATASTROPttE — COLLETON’S DISCOVERY. 


183 


od he dared not use, for fear of attracting the attention of his 
foes — struck at his head, his advanced foot became entangled 
in the root of a tree which ran above the surface, and the im- 
petus of his action occurring at the very instant in which he en- 
countered the obstruction, the stroke fell short of his victim, and 
grazed the side of his horse ; while the ruffian himself, stum- 
bling forward and at length, fell headlong upon the ground. 

The youth was awakened to consciousness. His mind was 
one of that cast with which to know, to think, and to act, are 
simultaneous. Of ready decision, he was never at a loss, and 
seldom surprised into even momentary incertitude. With the 
first intimation of the attack upon himself, his pistol had been 
drawn, and while the prostrate ruffian was endeavoring to rise, 
and before he had well regained his feet, the unerring ball was 
driven through his head, and without word or effort he fell back 
among his fellows, the blood gushing from his mouth and nos- 
trils in unrestrained torrents. 

The whole transaction was the work of a single instant ; and 
before the squatters, who came with their slain leader, could 
sufficiently recover from the panic produced by the event, to re- 
venge his death, the youth was beyond their reach; and the 
assailing party of the guard, in front of the post, apprized of the 
sally by the discharge of the pistol, made fearful work among 
them by a general fire, while obliquing to the entrance of the. 
pass just in time to behold the catastrophe, now somewhat pre- 
cipitated by the event which had occurred below. Ralph, 
greatly excited, regained his original stand of survey, and with 
feelings of unrepressed horror beheld the catastrophe. The 
Georgian had almost reached the top of the hill — another turn 
of the road gave him a glimpse of the table upon which rested 
the hanging and disjointed cliff of which we have spoken, when 
a voice was heard — a single voice — in inquiry : — 

“ All ready 

The reply was immediate — 

“ Ay, ay ; now prize away, boys, and let go.** 

The advancing troop looked up, and were pennitted a mo- 
mentary glance of the terrible fate which awaited them before it 
fell. That moment was e7iough for horror. A general cry burst 
from the li^ s of those in fi mt, the only notice which those in the 


184 


GtJY niVERS. 


rear ever received of the danger before it was upon them. At! 
effort, half paralyzed by the awful emotion which came over 
them, was made to avoid the down-coming ruin ; hut with only 
partial success; for, in an instant after, the ponderous mass, 
which hung for a moment like a cloud above them, upheaved 
from its bed of ages, and now freed from all stays, with a sud- 
den, hurricane-like and whirling impetus, making the solid rock 
tremble over which it rushed, came thundering down, swinging 
over one half of the narr 3w trace, hounding from one side to the 
other along the gorge, and with the headlong fury of a cataract 
sweeping everything from before its path until it reached the 
dead level of the plain below. The involuntary shriek from those 
who beheld the mass, when, for an instant impending above 
them, it seemed to hesitate in its progress down, was more full 
of human terror than any utterance which followed the event. 
With the exception of a groan, wrung forth here and there from 
the half-crushed victim, in nature’s agony, the deep silence which 
ensued was painful and appalling; and even when the dust 
had dissipated, and the eye was enabled to take in the entire 
amount of the evil deed, the prospect failed in impressing the 
senses of the survivors with so distinct a sentiment of horror, as 
when the doubt and death, suspended in air, were yet only 
threatened. 

Though prepared for the event, in one sense of the word, the 
great body of the squatters were not prepared for the unusual 
emotions which succeeded it in their bosoms. The arms 
dropped from the hands of many of them — a, speechless 
liorror was the prevailing feature of all, and all fight was over, 
while the scene of bloody execution was now one of indiscrim- 
inate examination and remark with friend and foe. Ralph was 
the first to rush up the fatal pass, and to survey the honuble 
prospect. 

One half of the brave little corps had been swept to instant 
death by the unpitying rock, without havh;g ifibrded the slight 
est obstacle to its fearful progress. In one place lay a disem- 
bowelled steed panting its last; mangled in a confused and 
unintelligible mass lay beside him another, the limbs of hie 
‘rider in many places undistinguishahle from his own. One 
poor vT’etch, whom he assisted to extricate from beneath the 


CATASTROPHE — COLLETON’s DISCOVERY. 185 

body of his struggling horse, cried to him for water, and died in 
the prayer. F ort inately for the few who suiwived the catas- 
trophe — among whom was their gallant but unfortunate young 
leader — they had, at the frst glimpse of the danger, urged on 
their horseo wi'.'f* , effort, and by a close approach to 

the suifface of the rock, .aK’. ^ an oblique direction wide of its 
probable course, had, at the time of its precipitation, reached a 
line a’most parallel with the place upon which it stood, and in 
this Wtiy achieved their escape vithout injury. Their number 
was few, however; and net ii-alf of^the fifteen, who com- 
menced the ascent, e\er reacLe: or survived its attainment. 

Ralph gained the summi>, jac"; time to prevent the comple- 
tion of the fouT tragedy by ilz most appropriate climax. As if 
enough had not yet been done in the way of crime, the malig- 
nant and merciless Rivers, of whom we have seen little in this 
affair, but by whose black and devilish spirit the means of de- 
struction had been hit upon, which had so well succeeded, now 
stood over the body of the Georgian, with uplifted hand, about 
to complete the deed already begun. There was not a moment 
for delay, and the youth sprung forward in time to seize and 
wrest the weapon from his grasp. With a feeling of undis- 
guised indignation, he exclaimed, as the outlaw turned furiously 
upon him — 

“Wretch — what would you? Have you not done enough? 
would you strike the unresisting man ?” 

Rivers, with undisguised effort, now turned his rage upon the 
intruder. His words, choked by passion, could scarce find ut- 
terance; but he spoke with furious effort at length, as he di- 
rected a wild blow with a battle-axe at the head of the youth. 

“You come for your death, and you shall have it !” 

“Not yet,” replied Ralph, adroitly avoiding the stroke and 
closing with the ruffian — “yomwill find that I an not u:- equal 
to the struggle, though it be with such a m nstcr as yourself.” 

What might have been the event of this combat may not be 
said. The parties were separated in a moment by the inter- 
position of Forrester, but not till our hero, tearing off in the 
scuffle the handkerchief which had hitherto encircled the cheeks 
of his opponent, discovered the friendly outlaw who collected 
toll for the Pony Club, and upon whose face the hoof of his 


186 


GUY RIVERS. 


horse was most visibly engraven — who had so boldy avowed 
his design upon his life and purse, and whom he had so fortu- 
nately and successfully foiled on his first approach to .the vil- 
lage. 

The fight was over after this catastrophe ; the survivors of 
the guard, who were unhurt, had fled ; and the parties with 
little stir were all now assembled around the scene of it. There 
was little said upon the occasion. The Abounded w’^ere taken 
such care of as circumstances would permit ; and w^agons having 
been provided, were^all removed to the village. Begun Avith too 
much impulse, and conducted with too little consideration, the 
struggle between the military and the outlaAvs had noAv ter- 
minated in a manner that left perhaps but littte satisfaction in 
the minds of either party. The latter, though generally an 
unlicensed tribe — an Ishmaelitish race — whose hands were 
against all men, were not so sure that they had not been guilty 
of a crime, not merely against the laws of man and human 
society, but against the self-evident decrees and dictates of 
God ; and with this doubt, at least, if not its conviction, in their 
thoughts, their victory, such as it was, afibrded a source of very 
(][ualified rejoicing. 


CLOSE QUARTERS. 


187 


CHAPTER XV. 

CLOSE QUARTERS. 

Colleton was by no means slow in the recognition of the 
ri ffian, and only wondered at his own dullness of vision in not 
having made the discovery before. Nor did Rivers, with all 
his habitual villany, seem so well satisfied with his detection. 
Perceiving himself fully known, a momentary feeling of inqui- 
etude came over him ; and though he did not fear, he began to 
entertain in his mind that kind of agitation and doubt which 
made him, for the first time, apprehensive of the consequences. 
He was not the cool villain like Munro — never to be taken by 
surprise, or at disadvantage ; and his eye was now withdrawn, 
though but for a moment, beneath the stern and searching glance 
whicli read him through. 

That tacit animal confession and acknowledgment were alone 
sufficient to madden a temper such as that of Rivers. Easily 
aroused, his ferocity was fearless and atrocious, but not meas- 
ured or methodical. His mind was not marked — we had al- 
most said tempered — by that wholesome indifference of mood 
which, in all matters of prime villany, is probably the most 
desirable constituent. He was, as we have seen, a creature of 
strong passions, morbid ambition, quick and even habitual ex- 
citement; though, at times, endeavoring to put on that air of 
sarcastic superiority to all emotion which marked the character 
of the ascetic philosopher — a character to which he had not the 
slightest claim of resemblance, and the very affectation of which, 
whenever he became aroused or irritated, was completely forgot- 
ten. Without referring — as Munro would have done, and, in- 
deed, as he subsequently did — to the precise events which had 
already just taken place and were still in progress about him, 
and which made all parties equally obnoxious with himself to 


m 


GUY RIVEHS. 


human punishment, and for an offence far more criminal in its 
dye than that which the youth laid to his charge — he could 
not avoid the momentary apprehension, which — succeeding 
with the quickness of thought the intelligent and conscious 
glance of Colleton — immediately came over him. His eye, 
seldom distinguished by such a habit, quailed before it; and 
the deep malignity and festering hatred of his soul toward the 
youth, which it so unaccountably entertained before, under- 
went, by this mortification of his pride, a due degree of exag- 
geration. 

Ralph, though wise beyond his years, and one who, in a 
thought borrowed in part from Ovid, we may say, could rather 
compute them by events than ordinary time, wanted yet con- 
siderably in that wholesome, though rather dowdyish virtue, 
which men call prudence. He acted on the present occasion 
precisely as he might have done in the college campus, with all 
the benefits of a fair field and a plentiful crowd of backers 
Without duly reflecting whether an accusation of the kind he 
preferred, at such a time, to such men, and against one of their 
own accomplices, would avail much, if anything, toward the 
punishment of the criminal — not to speak of his own risk, 
necessarily an almost certain consequence from such an implied 
determination not to be partkeps criminis with any of them, he 
approached, and boldly denounced Rivers as a murderous vil- 
lain ; and urgently called upon those around him to aid in his 
arrest. 

But he was unheard — he had no auditors; nor did this fact 
result from any unwillingness on their part to hear and listen to 
the charge against one so detested as the accused. They could 
see and hear but of one subject — they could comprehend no 
other. The events of such fresh and recent occurrence were in 
all minds and before all eyes ; and few, besides Forrester, either 
heard to understand, or listened for a moment to the recital. 

Ncr did the latter and now unhappy personage appear to give 
it much more consideration than the rest. Hurried on by the 
force of associating circumstances, and by promptings not of 
himself or his, he had been an active performer in the terrible 
drama we have already witnessed, and the catastrophe of which 
he could now only, and in vain, deplore. Leaning with vacant 


CLOSE QUARTEllS. 


189 


stare and lacklustre vision against the neighboring rock, he 
seemed indifferent to, and perhaps ignorant of, the occurrences 
taking place around him. He had interfered when the youth 
and Rivers were in contact, hut so soon after the event narrated, 
that time for reflection had not then been allowed. The dread- 
ful process of thinking himself into an examination of his own 
deeds was going on ; and remorse, with its severe but salutary 
stings, wai doing, without restraint, her rigorous duties. 

Though either actually congregated or congregating around 
him, and y/ithin free and easy hearing of his voice, now stretched 
to its utmost, the party were quite too busily employed in the 
discui!sion of the events — too much immersed in the sudden 
stupor which followed, in nearly all minds, their termination — 
to know or care much what were the hard words which our 
young traveller bestowed upon the detected outlaw. They had 
all of them (their immediate leaders excepted) been hurried on, 
as is perfectly natural and not unfrequently the case, by the 
rapid succession of incidents (which in their progress of excite- 
ment gave them no time for reflection), from one act to another j 
without perceiving, in a single pause, the several gradations by 
which they insensibly passed on from crime to crime; — and it 
was only now, and in a survey of the several foot-prints in 
their progress, that they were enabled to perceive the vast and 
perilous leaps which they had taken. As in the ascent of the 
elevation, step by step, we can iudge imperfectly of its height, 
until from the very summit we look down upon our place of start- 
ing, so with the wretched outcasts of society of whom we speak. 
Flushed with varying excitements, they hi>d deputed the task 
of reflection to another and a calmer time ; and with the reins 
of sober reason relaxed, whirled on by their passions, they lost 
all control over their own impetuous progress, until brought up 
and checked, as we have seen, by a catastrophe the most ruinous 
— the return of reason being the signal for the rousing up of 
those lurking furies— terror, remorse, and many and maddening 
regrets. From little to large events, we experience or behold 
this every day. It is a history, and all read it. It belongs to 
human nature and to society ; and until some process shall be 
discovered by which men shall be compelled to think by rule 
^nd under regulation, as in a penitentiary their bodies ai’f? 


190 


GUY RIVERS. 


required to work, we despair of having much improvement ir 
the general condition of human affairs. The ignorant and un- 
educated man is quite too willing to depute to others the task of 
thinking for hini and furnishing his opinions. The great mass 
are gregarious, and whether a lion or a log is chosen for their 
guidance, it is still the same — they will follow the leader, if 
regularly recognised as such, even though he he an ass. As if 
conscious of their own incapacities, whether these arise from 
deficiencies of education or denials of birth, they forego the 
only habit — that of self-examination — which alone can supply 
the deficiency ; and with a blind determination, are willing, on 
any terms, to divest themselves of the difficulties and responsi- 
bilities of their own government. They crown others with all 
command, and binding their hands with cords, place themselves 
at the disposal of those, who, in many cases, not satisfied with 
thus much, must have them hookwinked also. To this they 
also consent, taking care, in their great desire to be slaves, to be 
foremost themselves in tying on the bandage which keeps them 
in darkness and in chains for ever. Thus will they be content 
to live, however wronged, if not absolutely bruised and beaten ; 
happy to escape from the cares of an independent mastery of 
their own conduct, if, in this way, they can also escape from the 
noble responsibilities of independence. 

The unhappy men, thus led on, as we have seen, from the 
commission of misdemeanor to that of crime, in reality, never 
foi a moment thought upon the mat ,er. The landlord, Dexter, 
and Rivers, had, Mme out of mind, been their oracles; and, 
without referring to the distinct condition of those persons, they 
reasoned in a maimer not uncommon with the ignorant. Like 
children at play, they did not perceive the narrow boundaries 
which separate indulgence from licentiousness ; and in the hur- 
ried excitement of the mood, inspired by the one habit, they 
had passed at once, unthinkingly and unconsciously, into the 
excesses of the other. They now beheld the event in its true 
colors, and there were but few among the squatters not sadly 
doubtful upon the course taken, and suffering corresponding 
dismay from its probable consequences To a few, such as 
Munro and Rivers, the aspect of the thing was unchanged — 
they had beheld its true features from the outset, and knew the 


CLOSE QUARTERS. 


191 


course, and defied tlie consequences. They had already mad»j 
up their minds upon it — had regarded the matter in all its 
phases, and suffered no surprise accordingly. Not so with the 
rest — with Forrester in particular, whose mental distress, 
though borne with manliness, was yet most distressing. He 
stood apart, saying nothing, yet lamenting inwardly, with the 
self-upbraid‘ings of an agonized spirit, the easy facility with 
which he had been won, by the cunning of others, into the 
perpetration of a crime so foul. He either for a time heard not 
or understood not the charges made by Ralph against his late 
coadjutor, until brought to his consciousness- by the increased 
stir among the confederates, who now rapidly crowded about 
the spot, in time to hear the denial of the latter to the accusa- 
tion, in language and a manner alike fierce and unqualified. 

“Hear me!” was the exclamation of the youth — his voice 
rising in due effect, and illustrating well the words he uttered, 
and the purpose of his speech: — “I charge this born and 
branded villain with an attempt upon my life. He sought to 
rob and murder me at the Catcheta pass but a few days ago. 
Thrown between my horse’s feet in the struggle, he received 
the brand of his hoof, which he now wears upon his cheek. 
There he stands, with the well-deserved mark upon him, and 
which, but for the appearance of his accomplices, I should have 
made of a yet deeper character. Let him deny it if he can or 
dare.” 

The face of Rivers gi'ew alternately pale and purple with 
passion, and he struggled in vain, for several minutes, to speak. 
The words came from him hoarsely and gratingly. Fortunately 
for him, Munro, whose cool villany nothing might well discom- 
pose, perceiving the necessity of speech for him who had none, 
interfered with the following inquiry, uttered in something like 
a tone of surprise. 

“ And what say you to this accusation, Guy Rivers ? Can 
you not find an answer ?” 

“ It is false — false as hell I and you know it, Munro, as well 
as myself. I never saw the boy until at your house.” 

“ That I know, and why you should take so long to sa}^ it I 
can’t understand. It appears to me, young gentleman” said 
Munro. with moat cool and delightful effrontery, “ that I 


192 


GUr RIVERS. 


set all these matters right. I can show you to he under a mis 
take ; for I happen to know that, at the very time of which 
you speak, we were both of us up in the Chestatee fork, looking 
for a runaway slave — you know the fellow, boys — Black Tom 
— who has been out for six months and more, and of whom I 
got information a few weeks ago. Well, as everybody knows, 
the Chestatee fork is at least twenty miles from the Catcheta 
pass ; and if we were in one place, we could not, I am disposed 
to think, very well be in another.” 

“An alibi, clearly established,” was the remark of Counsellor 
Pippin, who now, peering over the shoulders of the youth, ex- 
hibited his face for the first time during the controversies of the 
day. Pippin was universally known to be possessed of an ad- 
mirable scent for finding out a danger when it is well over, and 
when the spoils, and not the toils, of the field are to be reaped. 
His appearance at this moment had the eifect of arousing, in 
some sort, the depressed spirits of those around him, by recal- 
ling to memory and into exercise the jests upon his infirmities, 
which long use had made legitimate and habitual. Calculating 
the probable effect of such a joke, Munro, without seeming to 
observe the interruption, looking significantly round among the 
assembly, went on to say — 

“ If you have been thus assaulted, young man, and I am not 
disposed to say it is not as you assert, it can not have been by 
any of our village, unless it be that Counsellor Pippin and his 
fellow Hob were the persons : they were down, now I recollect, 
at the Catcheta pass, somewhere about the time ; and I’ve long 
suspected Pippin to be more dangerous than people think him.” 

“I deny it all — I deny it. It’s not true, young man. It’s 
not true, my friends ; don’t believe a word of it. Now, Munro, 
how can you speak so? Hob — Hob — Hob — I say — where 
the devil are you? Hob — say, you rascal, was I within five 
miles of the Catcheta pass to-day ?” The negro, a black of the 
sootiest complexion, now advanced : — 

“ No, maussa.” 

“ Was I yesterday ?” 

The negro put his finger to his forehead, and the lawyer be- 
^rau to fret at this indication of thought, and, as it promised to 
i^oniinaa, exclaimed — 


CLOSE QUARTERS, 


19 ?. 


“ Speak, you rascal, speak out ; you know well enough with- 
out reflecting.” The slave cautiously responded — 

“ If maussa want to be dere, maussa dere — no 'casion for ax 
Hob.” 

“ You black rascal, you know well enough I was not there — 
that I was not within five miles of tbs spo,, either to-day, yes- 
terday, or for ten days back !” 

“Berry true, maussa; if yoi lo dere, you no dere. Hob 
nebber say one ting when mans, w say ’noder.” 

1 he unfortunate counsellor, desperate with the deference of 
his body-servant, now absolutely perspired with rage ; while, 
to the infinite amusement of all, in an endeavor to strike the 
pliable witness, who adroitly dodged the blow, the lawyer, not 
over-active of frame, plunged incontinently forward, and paused 
not in his headlong determination until he measured himself at 
length upon the ground. The laugh which succeeded was one 
of effectual discomfiture, and the helpless barrister made good 
his retreat from a field so unpromising by a pursuit of the swift- 
footed negro, taking care not to return from the chase. 

Colleton, who had regarded this interlude with stern brow 
and wrathful spirit, now spoke, addressing Munro : — 

“ You affirm most strongly for this villain, but your speech is 
vain if its object be to satisfy my doubts. What eff*ect it may 
have upon our hearers is quite another matter. You can not 
swear me out of my conviction ani the integrity 3f my senses. 
I am resolute in the one belief, and do not hesitate here, and in 
the presence of himself and all of you, to pronounce him again 
all the scoundrel I declared him to be at first — in the teeth of 
all your denials not less than of his! But, perhaps — as you 
answer for him so readily and so well — let us know, for doubt- 
less you can, by what chance he came by that brand, that fine 
impress which he wears so happily upon his cheek. Can you 
not inform him where he got it-- on what road he met with it, 
and whether the devil’s or my horse’s heel gave it him !” 

“ If your object be merely to insult me, young man, I forgive 
it. You are quite too young for me to punish, and I have only 
pity for the indiscretion that moves you to unprofitable violence 
at this time and in this place, where you see but little respect 
is shown to those who invade us with harsh words or actions. 

9 


194 


GUY RIVERS. 


As for your charge against Bivers, I happen to know that it is 
anfoundcd, and my evidence alone would be sufficient for the 
purpose of his defence. If, however, he were guilty of the at- 
tempt, as you allege, of what avail is it for you to make it? 
Look around you, young man !” — taking the youth aside as he 
spoke in moderated terms — “ you have eyes and understanding, 
and can answer the question for yourself. Who is here to ar- 
rest him ? Who would desire, who would dare to make the 
endeavor? We are all here equally interested in his escape, 
were he a criminal in this respect, because we are all here” — 
and his voice fell in such a manner as to he accommodated to 
the senses of the youth alone — “ equally guilty of violating the 
same laws, and by an offence in comparison with which that 
against you would be entirely lost sight of. There is the court- 
house, it is true — and there the jail ; hut we seldom see sheriff, 
judge, or jailer. When they do make their appearance, which 
is not often, they are glad enough to get away again. If we 
here suffer injury from one another, we take justice into our 
own hands — as you allege yourself partly to have done in this 
else — and there the matter generally ends. Bivers, you think, 
assaulted you, and had the worst of it. You got off with hut 
little harm yourself, and a reasonable man ought to be satisfied. 
Nothing mjre need be said of it. This is the wisest course, let 
me advisi you. Be quiet about the matter, go on your way, 
and leave us to nrselves. Better suffer a little wrong, and 
seem to know nothing of it, than risk a quarrel with those who, 
liaving once put themselves out of the shelter of the laws, take 
every opportunity of putting them at defiance. And what if 
you were to push the matter, where will the sheriff or the mili- 
tary find us ? In a week and the judge will arrive, and the 
court will be in session. For that week we shall he out of the 
way Nobody shall know-- nobody can find us. This day’s 
work wi’l most probably give us all a great itch for travel.” 

Munro had, in truth, made out a very plain case; ani his 
representations, in the main, were all correct. The youth felt 
tlieir force, and his reason readily assented to the plain-sense 
course which they pointed out. Contenting himself, therefore, 
with reiterating the charge, he concluded with saying that, for 
the present, he would let the affair rest. “ Until the ruffian” — 


CLOSE QUARTERS. 


l9o 

thus Ke phrased it — “ had answered the penalties of the laws 
for his subsequent and more heinous offence against them, he 
.should be silent.” 

“But I have not done with you, young sir,” was the imme- 
diate speech of Rivers — his self-confidence and much of his 
composure returned, as, with a fierce and malignant look, and 
a quick stride, he approached the youth. “ You have thought 
proper to make a foul charge against me, which I have denied. 
It has been shown that your assertion is unfounded, yet you 
persist in it, and offer no atonement. I now demand redress — 
the redress ^of a gentleman. You know the custom of the coun- 
try, and regard your own character, I should think, too highly 
to refuse me satisfaction. You have pistols, and here are rifles 
and dirks. Take your choice.” 

The youth looked upon him with ineffable scorn as he re- 
plied — 

“ You mistake me, sirrah, if you think I can notice your call 
wdth anything but contempt.” 

“What! will you not fight — not fight? not hack your words?” 

“Not with you !” was the calm reply. 

“ You refuse me satisfaction, after insulting me I” 

“ I always took him for a poor chicken, fi-om the first time I 
set eyes on him,” said one of the spectators. 

“ Yes, I didn’t think much of him, when he refused to join 
us,” was the remark of another. 

“ This comes of so much crowing ; Brag is a good dog, hut 
Holdfast is better,” went on a third, and each man had his 
remark upon Colleton’s seeming timidity. Scofn and indigna- 
tion were in all faces around him; and Forrester, at length 
awakened from his stupor by the tide of fierce comment set- 
ting in upon his friend from all quarters, now thought it time t^^ 
interfere. 

“Come, ’squire, how’s this? Don’t give way — give him 
satisfaction, as he calls it, and send the lead into his gizzard. 
It will be no harm done, in putting it to such a creature as that. 
Don’t let him crow over old Carolina — don t, now, squire! 
You can hit him as easy as a barndoor, for I saw your shot, to- 
day ; don’t be afraid, now — stand up, and I’ll hack you«.gainBt 
the whole of them.” 


196 


GUY RIVERS. 


“Ay, bring him forward, Forrester. Let him be a man, if tie 
can,” was the speech of one of the party. 

“ Come, ’squire, let me say that you are ready. I’ll mark 
oflP the ground, and you shall have fair play,” was the earnest 
speech of the woodman in terms of entreaty. 

“ You mistake me greatly, Forrester, if you suppose for a 
moment that I will contend on equal terms f\dth such a wretch, 
lie is a common robber and an outlaw, whom I have denounced 
as such, and whom I can not therefore fight with. Were he a 
gentleman, or had he any pretensions to the character, you 
should have no need to urge me on, I assure you.” 

I know that, ’squire, and therefore it provokes me to think 
that the skunk should get off. Can’t you, now, lay aside the 
gentleman just long enough to wing him ? Noav, do try !” 

The youth smiled as he shook his head negatively. For- 
rester, with grekt anxiety, proceeded ; — 

“ But, ’squire, they won’t know your reason for refusing, and 
they will set you down as afear’d. They will call you a cow- 
ard!” 

“And -what if they do, Forrester ] They are not exactly the 
people about whose opinions I give myi^elf any concern. I am 
not solicitous to gain credit for courage among them. If any 
of them doubt it, let him try me. Let one of them raise a liand 
or lift a finger upon me, and make the experiment. They will 
then find me ready and willing enough to defend myself from 
any outrage, come from what quarter it may.” 

' “I’m afraid, ’squire, they can’t be made to understand the 
dificrence between a gentleman and a squatter. Indeed, it isn’t 
reasonable that they should, seeing that such a difference puts 
them out of any chance of dressing a proud fellow who carries 
his head too high. If you don’t fight, ’squire, I must, if it’s only 
for the honor of old Carolina. So here goes.” 

The woodman threw off his coat, and taking up his rifle, sub- 
stituted a new for the old flint, and furnishing the pan with 
tresh priming, before our hero could well understand the pro- 
posed and novel an*angement so as to interpose in its arrest, ho 
advanced to the spot where Rivers stood, apparently awaiting 
the youth’s decision, and, slapping him upon the shoulder, thus 
- ( ddressed him •. — 


CLOSE QUARTERS. 


197 


say, Guy Rivers, the ’squire thinks you too great a black 
guard for him to handle, and leaves all the matter to me. Now, 
you see, as I’ve done that to-day which makes me just as great 
a blackguard as yorrxlf, I stand up in his place. So here’s 
.for you. You needn’t make any excuse, and say you h^ve nr 
quarrel with me, for, as I am to handle you in his place, you 
will consider me to say everything that he has said — every 
word of it ; and, in addition to that, if more be necessary, you 
must know I think you a mere skunk, and I’ve been wanting 
to have a fair lick at you for a monstrous long season.” 

“ You shall not interfere, Forrester, and in this manner, on 
any pretence, for the shelter of the coward, who, having insulted 
me, now refuses to give me satisfaction. If you have anything 
to ask at my hands, when I have done with him, I shall be 
ready for you,” was the reply of Rivers. 

“ You hear that ’squire ? I told you so. He has called you 
a coward, and you will have to fight him at last,” 

“ I do not see the necessity for that, Forrester, and beg that 
you will undertake no fighting on my account. When my hon- 
or is in danger, I am man enough to take care of it myself ; and, 
when I am not, my friend can do me no service by taking my 
place. As for this felon, the hangman for him — nobody else.” 

Maddened, not less by the cool determination of Colleton 
than by the contemptuous conclusion of his speech. Rivers, 
without a word, sprang fiercely upon him with a dirk, drawn 
from his bosom with concerted motion as he made the leap — 
striking, as he approached, a blow at the unguarded breast of 
the youth, which, from the fell and fiendish aim and effort, 
must have resulted fatally had he not been properly prepared 
for some such attempt. Ralph was in his prime, however, of 
vigorous make and muscle, and well practised in the agile 
sports and athletic exercises of woodland life. He saw the in- 
tent in the mischievous glance of his enemy’s eye, in time to 
guard himself against it ; and, suddenly changing his position, 
as the body of his antagonist was nearly upon him, he eluded 
the blow, and the force and impetus employed in the effort bore 
the assassin fi/rward. Before he could arrest his own progress, 
the youth had closed in upon him, and by a dexterous use of 
his foot, in a manner well known to he American woodman 


198 


GUY RIVERS 


Rivers, without being able to interpose the slightest obstacle ^ the 
new direction thus given him, was forcibly hurled to the ground. 

Before he could recover, the youth was upon him. His 
blood was now at fever-heat, for he had not heard the taunts 
upon his courage, from all around him, with indifference, though 
he had borne them with a laudable show of patience throughout. 
His eye shot forth fires almost as malignant as those of his op- 
ponent. One of his hands was wreathed in the nsckcloth of his 
prostrate foe, while the other was employed in freeing his own 
dirk from the encumbrances of his vest. This took little time, 
and he would not have hesitated in the blow, when the inter- 
position of those present bore him off, and permitted the fallen 
and stunned man to recover his feet. It was at this moment 
that the honest friendship of Forrester was to be tried and test- 
ed. The sympathies of those around were most generally with 
the ruflfian ; and the aspect of affairs was something unlucky, 
when the latter was not only permitted to ricjmmencc the 
attack, but v/lien the youth was pinioned to the ground by 
others of the gang, and disarmed of all defence. The moment 
was perilous; and, whooping like a savage, Forrester leaped 
in between, dealing at the same time his powerful blows from 
one to the other, right and left, and making a- clear field around 
the youth. 

Fair play is all I ask, boys — fair play, and we can lick the 
whole of you, Hurra for old Carolina. Who’s he says a word 
against her 1 Let him stand up, and be knocked down. How’s 
it, ’squire— you an’t hurt, I reckon 1 I hope not; if you are, 
I’ll have a shot with Rivers myself on the spot.” 

But Manro interposed : “ We have had enough outcry, For- 
rester. Let us -have no more. Take this young man along 
with you, or it will be worse for him.” 

“Well, Wat Munro, all the ’squire wants is fair play — fair 
play for both of us, and we’ll take the field, man after man. I 
tell you what, Munro, in our parts the chickens are always 
hatched with spurs, and the children born with their eye-teeth. 
We know someth’ng, too, about whipping our weight in wild- 
cats ; and until the last governor of our state had all the bears 
killed, because they were getting civilized, we could wrestle 
with ’em man for man, and throw seven out of ten. 


CONSPIRACY— WARNING. 




CHAPTER X'v I. 

CONSPIRACY — WARNING. 

Ralph was not permitted to return to the village that night 
— his sturdy friend Forrester insisting up n his occupying with 
him the little lodge of his own, resting on the borders of the set- 
tlement, and almost buried in the forest. Here they conversed 
until a late hour, previous to retiring; the woodman entering 
more largely into his own history than he had done before. He 
suffered painfully from the occurrences of the day : detailed the 
manner in which he had been worked upon by Munro to take 
part ia the more fearful transaction with the guard — how the 
excitement of the approaching conflict had defeated his capa- 
cities of thought, and led him on to the commission of so great 
a part of the general offence. Touching the initial affair with 
the squatters, he had no compunctious scruples. That was all 
fair game in his mode of thinking, and even had blood been 
spilled more freely than it was, he seemed to think he should 
have had no remorse. But on the subject of the murder of the 
guard, for so he himself called his crime, his feeling was so in- 
tensely agonizing that Ralph, though as much shocked as him- 
self at the events, found it necessary to employ sedative lan- 
guage, and to forbear all manner of rebuke. 

At an early hour of the morning, they proceeding in company 
to the village — Forrester having to complete certain arrange- 
ments prior to his flight ; which, by the advice of Colleton, he had 
at once determined upon. Such, no doubt, was the determination 
of many among them not having those resources, in a familiari- 
ty with crime and criminal associations, which were common to 
Munro and Rivers. 

The aspect of the village was somewhat varied fropi its wont 


200 


GUY RiVEES. 


Its people were not so far gone in familiarity with occurrences 
like those of the preceding day, as to be utterly insensible to 
their consequences; and a chill inertness pervaded all faces, 
and set at defiance every endeavor -on the part of the few who 
had led, to put the greater number in better spirits, either with 
themselves or those around them. They were men habituated, 
it may be, to villanies ; but of a petty description, and far be- 
neath that which we have just recorded. It is not, therefore, 
to be wondered at, if, when the momentary impulse had passed 
away, they felt numerous misgivings. They were all assem- 
bled, as on the day bsfoie- —their new allies with them — arms 
in their hands, but seemingly without much disposition for their 
use. They saunterea unconsciously about the village, in little 
groups or individually, without concert or combination, and 
with suspicious or hesitating eye. Occasionally, the accents of 
a single voice broke the general silence, though but for a mo- 
ment ; and then, with a startling and painful influence, which 
imparted a still deeper sense of gloom to the spirits of all. It 
appeared to come laden with a mystc^rions and s{ range terror, 
and the speaker, aptly personifying the Fear in Collins’s fine 
“ Ode on the Passions,” “ shrunk from the sound him.self had 
made.” 

Ralph, in company with Forrester, made his appearance 
among the squatters while thus situated. Seeing them armed 
as on the previous day, he was apprehensive of some new evil ; 
and as he approached the several stray groups, made known 
his apprehensions to his companion in strong language. He 
was not altogether assured of Forrester’s own compunction, and 
the appearance of those around almost persuaded him to doubt 
his sincerity. 

“Why are these people assembled, Forrester — is there any- 
thing new — is there .more to be done — more bloodletting — 
more crime and violence — are they still unsatisfied?” 

The earnestness of the inquirer was coupled with a sternness 
of eye and warmth of accent which had in them much, that, 
under other circumstances and at other times, would have been 
sorely offensive to the sturdy woodman ; whose spirit, anything 
in the guise of rebuke would have been calculated to vex. But 
he was burdened with thoughts at the moment, which, in a suf 


CONSPIRACY — Warning. 201 

ficlend/ moj^atorial character, humbled him with a scourge that 
lacerated at every stroke. 

“ God forbid, ’squire, that more harm should he done. There 
has been more done already than any of us shall well get rid 
of. I wish to heaven I had taken caution from you. But I 
was mad, 'squire, mad to the heart, and became the willing tool 
of men not so mad, but more evil than I ! God forbid, sir, that 
there should be more harm done.” 

“ Then why this assembly 'i Why do the villagers, and these 
ragged and savage fellows whom you have incorporated among 
you — why do they lounge about idly, with arms in their hands, 
and faces that still seem bent on mischief?’^ 

“Because, ’squire, it’s impossible to do oth'‘,rwise. We can’t 
go to work, for the life of us, if we wished to ; we all feel that 
we have gone too far, and those, whose own consciences do not 
trouble them, are yet too much troubled by fear of the conse- 
quences to be in any hurry to take up handspike or hammer 
again in this quarter of the world.” 

The too guilty man had indeed spoken his own and the con- 
dition of the people among whom he lived. They could now 
see and feel the fruits of that rash error which had led them 
on ; but their consciousness came too late for retrieval, and 
they now wondered, with a simplicity truly surprising to those 
who know with what facility an uneducated and warm people 
may be led to their own min, that this consciousness had not 
come to them before. Balph, attended by Forrester, advanced 
among the crowd. As he did so, all eyes were turned upon 
him, and a sullen conference took plac ., having reference to 
himself, between Munro and a few of thu riagleaders. This 
conference was brief, and as soon as it was concluded, the land- 
lord turned to the youth, and spoke as follows : — 

“■You were a witness, Mr. Colleton, of this whole transaction, 
and can say whether the soldiers were not guilty of the most 
unprovoked assault upon us, without reason or right.” 

“ I can say no such tiling, sir,” was his reply. “ On the con- 
trary, I am compelled to say, that a more horrible and unjusti- 
fiable transaction I never witnessed. I must say that they 
were rot the aggressors.” 

“How unjustifiable young sir quickly and sternly retorted 

9 * 


m 


GUt RIVERS. 


the landlord “ Did you not behold us ridden down by th« 
soldiery ? dil they not attack us in our trenches — in our castle 
as it were? and have we not a ri^ht to defend our castle fiom 
assailants? They took the adventure at their peril, and suffered 
accordingly.” 

“ I know not what your title may be to the grounds yoiPhave 
defended so successfully, and which you have styled your castle, 
nor shall I seep to inquire. I do not believe that your right 
either gave you possession or authorized your defence in this 
cruel manner. The matter, however, is between you and your 
country. My own impressions are decidedly against you ; and 
were I called upon for an opinion as to your mode of asserting 
your pretended right, I should describe it as brutal and barba- 
rous, and wholly without excuse or justification, whether exam- 
ined by divine or human laws.” 

“ A sermon, a sermon from the young preacher, come, boys, 
give him Old Hundred. Really, sir, you promise almost as well 
as the parson you heard yesterday ; and will take lessons from 
him, if advised by me. But go on — come to a finish — mount 
upon the stump, where you can be better seen and heard.” 

The cheek of the youth glowed with indignation at the speech 
of the ruffian, but he replied with a concentrated calmness that 
was full of significance : — 

“ You mistake me greatly, sir, if you imagine I am to be pro- 
voked into contest with you by any taunt which you can utter 
I pride myself somewhat in the tact with which I discover a 
ruffian, and having, at an early period of your acquaintance, 
seen what you were, I can not regard you in any other than a 
single point of view. Were you not what I know you to be, 
whatever might have been the difference of force between us, I 
should ere this have driven my dirk into your throat.” 

“ Why, that’s something like, now — -that’s what I call mafily. 
You do seem to have some pluck in you, young sir, though you 
might make more use of it. I like a fellow that can feel when 
he’s touched ; and don’t think a bit the worse of you that you 
think ill of me, and tell me so. But that’s not the thing now. 
We mu<?t talk of other matters. You must answer a civil ques- 
tion or two for the satisfaction of the company. We want to 
know, sir, if we may apprehend any interference on your part 


CONSPIRACY — WARNING. 


203 


between us and the state. Will you tell the authorities what 
you saw ?” 

Tlie youth made no answer to this question, but turning con- 
temptuously upon his heel, was about to leave the circle, around 
■*.7hich the assembly, in visible anxiety for his reply, was now 
beginning to crowd. 

“ Stay, young master, not so fast. You must give us some 
aiiifewer before you are ofiP. Let us know what we are to expect. 
Whether, if called upon by any authority, you would reveal 
what you know of this business V* was the further inquiry of 
Munro. 

“ I certuiiily should — every word of it, I should at once say 
that you were all criminal, and describe you as the chief actor 
and instigator in this unhappy affair.” 

The response of Colleton had been unhesitating and immedi- 
ate ; and having given it, he passed through the throng and left 
the crowd, which, sullenly parting, made way for him in front. 
Guy Rivers, in an under tone, muttered in the ear of Munro as 
he left the circle : — 

“ That, by the eternal God, ho shall never do. Are you sat- 
isfied now of the necessity of silencing him ?” 

Munro simply made a sign of silence, and took no seeming 
note of his departure ; but his determination was made, and 
there was now no obstacle in that quarter to the long-contem- 
plated vengeance of his confederate. 

W'hile this matter was in progress among the villagers, Coun- 
sellor Pippin vexed himself and his man Hob not a little with 
inquiries as to the manner in which he should contrive to make 
some professional business grow out of it. He could not well 
expect any of the persons concerned, voluntarily to convict 
themselves ; and his thoughts turned necessarily upon Ralph as 
the only one on whom he could rest his desire in this particular 
We have s6en with what indifferent success his own adventure 
on the field of action, and when the danger was all well over, 
was attended ; but he had heard and seen enough to persuade 
himself that but little was wanting, without appearing in the 
matter himself, to induce Ralph to prosecute Rivers for the at- 
tempt upon his life, a charge which} in his presence, he had 
heard him make. He calcmateid in this way to secure himself 


204 


GUY RIVERS. 


iu two jobs — as magistrate, to institute tlie initial proceedings 
by which Rivers was to be brought to trial, and the expense of 
which Ralph was required to pay — and, as an attorney-at-law, 
and the only one of which the village might boast, to have the 
satisfaction of defending and clearing the criminal. 

Such being the result C/f his deliberations, he despatched Hob 
with a note to Ralnh, requesting to see him at the earliest pos- 
.sible moment, upon business of the last importance. Hob ar- 
rived at the inn just at the time when, in the court in front, 
Ralph, in company with the woodman, had joined the villagers 
there assembled. Hob, who from long familiarity with the 
habits of his master, had acquired something of a like disposi- 
tion, felt exceedingly anxious to hear what was going on ; but 
knowing his situation, and duly valuing his own importance as 
the servant of so great a man as the village-lawyer, he con- 
ceived it necessary to proceed with proper caution. 

It is more than probable that his presence would have been 
unregarded had he made his approaches freely and with confi- 
dence ; but Hob was outrageously ambitious, and mystery was 
delightful. He went to work in the Indian manner, and what 
with occasionally taking the cover, now of a bush, now of a 
pine tree, and now of a convenient hillock. Hob had got him- 
self very comfortably lodged in the recess of an old ditch, origi- 
nally cut to carry off a body of water which rested on what 
was now in part the public mall. Becoming interested in the 
proceedings, and hearing of the departure of Ralph, to whom 
he had been despatched, his head gradually assumed a more 
elevated position — he soon forgot his precaution, and the 
shoulders of the spy, neither the most diminutive nor graceful, 
becoming rather too protuberant, were saluted with a smart as- 
sault, vigorously kept up by the assailant, to whom the use of 
the hickory appeared a familiar matter. Hob roared lu.stily, 
and was dragged from his cover. The note was found upon 
him, and still further tended to exaggerate the hostile feeling 
which the party now entertained for the youth. Under the 
terrors of the lash, Hbb confessed a great deal more than was 
trUe, and roused into a part forgetfulness of their otfence by the 
increased prospect of its i)Ulii6hmeiit^ which tho negro had un 


coNsmACY — waring. 205 

hesitatingly represented as near at hand, they proceeded to the 
office of the lawyer. 

It was in vain that Pippin denied all the statements of his 
negro — his note was thrust into his face; and without scruple, 
seizing upon his papers, they consigned to the flames, deed, 
process, and document — all the fair and unfair proceedings 
alike, of the lawyer, collected carefully through a busy period 
of twenty years’ litigation. They would have proceeded in 
like mtinner to the treatment of Ralph, but that Guy Rivers 
himself interposed to allay, and otherwise direct their fury. 
The cunning ruffian well knew that Forrester would stand by 
the youth, and unwilling to incur any risk, where the game in 
another way seemed so secure, he succeeded in quieting the 
party, by claiming to himself the privilege, on the part of his 
wounded honor, of a fair field with one who had so grievously 
assailed it. Taking the landlord aside, therefore, they discuss- 
ed various propositions for taking the life of one hateful to the 
one person and dangerous to them all. Munro was now not un- 
willing to recognise the necessity of taking him off ; and without 
entering into the feelings of Rivers, which were almost entirely 
personal, he gave his assent to the deed, the mode of perform- 
ing which was somewhat to, depend upon circumstances. These 
will find their due development as we proceed. 

In the meanwhile, Ralph had returned to the village-inn, 
encountering, at the 'first step, upon entering the threshold, the 
person of the very interesting girl, almost the only redeeming 
spirit of that establishment. She had heard of the occurrence 
— as who, indeed, had not — and the first expression of her 
face as her eyes met those of Ralph, though with a smile, had 
in it something of rebuke for not having taken the counsel 
which she had given him on his departure from the place of 
prayer. With a gentleness strictly in character, he conversed 
with her for some time on indifferent topics — surprised at every 
uttered word from her lips — so musical, so true to the modest 
weaknesses of her own, yet so full of the wisdom and energy 
which are the more legitimate characteristics of the other sex. 
At length she brought him back to the subject of the recent 
strife. 

“ Ycu must go from this pls:e, Mr. Colleton — you are not 


206 


GtJY iiivGlts. 


safe in this hoUse — in this country. You can iOw travel with* 
out inconvfenifencfe f ’om your late injuries, which do not appear 
to afifect you ; 'and the sooner you are gone the better for your 
safety. There are those here” — and she lookfed around with 
a studious caution as she spoke, while her voice sunk into.a 
whisper — “who only wait the hour and the opportunity to — ” 
and here her voice faltered as if she felt the imagined prospect 
— “ to put you to a merciless death. Believe me, and in your 
confident strength do not despise my warnings. Nothing but 
prudence and flight can save you.” 

“ Why,” said the youth, smiling, and taking her hand in 
reply, “ why should I fear to linger in a region, where one so 
much more alive to its sternnesses than myself may yet dare 
to abide ? Think you, sweet Lucy, that I am less hardy, less 
fearless of the dangers and the difficulties of this region than 
yourself? You little know how much at this moment my spirit 
is willing to encounter,” and as he spoke, though his lips wore 
a smile, there was a stern sadness in his look, and a gloomy 
contraction of his brow, which made the expression one of the 
fullest melancholy. 

The girl looked upon him with an eye full of a deep, though 
unconscious interest. She seemed desirous of searching into 
that spirit which he had described as so reckless. Withdraw- 
ing her hand suddenly, however, as if now for the first time 
aware of its position, she replied hastily : — 

“Yet, I pray you, Mr. Colleton, let nothing miake you indif- 
ferent to the warning I have given you. There is danger — 
more danger here to you than to me— -though, to me — ” the 
tears filled in her eyes as she spoke, and her head sunk down 
on her breast with an air of the saddest self-abandonment — 
“ there is more than death.” 

The youth again took her hand. He understood too well the 
signification of her speech, and the sad sacrifice which it refer 
red to ; and an interest in her fate was awakened in his bosom, 
which made him for a moment forget himself and the gentle 
Edith of his own dreams. 

“ Command me. Miss Munro, though I peril my life in your 
behalf; say that I can serve you in anything, and trust me to 
obey.” 


CONSMRA c y — warning. 


207 


fehe shook her head mournfully, hut without reply. Again 
he pressed his services, which were still refused. A little more 
firmly, however, she again urged his departure. 

“ My solicitations have no idle origin. Believe me, you are 
in danger, and have huf little time for delay. I would not thus 
hurry you, but that I would not have you perish. No, no ! 
you have been gentle and kind, as few others have been, to 
the poor orphan ; and, though I would still see and hear you, 
I would not that you should suffer. I would rather suffer 
myself.” 

Much of this was evidently uttered with the most childish 
unconsciousness. Her mind was obviously deeply excited with 
her fears, and when the youth assured her, in answer to her in^ 
quiries, that he should proceed in the morning on his journey, 
she interrupted him quickly — 

“To day — to-day — now — do not delay, I pray you. You 
know not the perils which a night may bring forth.” 

When assured that he himself could perceive no cause of 
peril, and when, with a manner sufficiently lofty, he gave her 
to understand that a feeling of pride alone, if there were no 
other cause, would prevent a procedure savoring so much of 
flight, she shook her head mournfully, though saying nothing. 
In reply to his offer of service, she returned him her thanks, 
hut assuring him he could do her none, she retired from the 
apartment. 


208 


GUY RIVE9!5. 


CHAPTER XVII 

REMORSE. 

During the progress of the dialogue narrated in the conclu- 
sion of our last chapter, Forrester had absented himself, as 
much probably with a delicate sense of courtesy, which antici- 
pated some further results than came from it, as with the view 
to the consummation of some private matters of his own. He 
now returned, and signifying his readiness to Ralph, they 
mounted their horses and proceeded on a proposed ride out of 
the village, in which Forrester had promised to show the youth 
a pleasanter region and neighborhood. 

This ride, however, was rather of a gloomy tendency, as its 
influences were lost in the utterance and free exhibition to 
Ralph of the mental sufferings of his companion. Naturally 
of a good spirit and temper, his heart, though strong of endur- 
ance and fearless of trial, had not been greatly hardened by 
the world’s circumstance. The cold droppings of the bitter 
waters, however they might have worn into, had not altogether 
petrified it; and his feelings, coupled with and at all times 
acted upon by a southern fancy, did not fail to depict to his 
own sense, and in the most lively colors, the offence of which 
he had been guilty. 

It was with a reproachful and troublesome consciousness, 
therefore, that he now addressed his more youthful companion 
on the subject so fearfully presented to his thought had 

already, in their brief acquaintance, found in Ralph a fi.’n and 
friendly adviser, and acknowledging in his person all the under- 
stood superiorities of polished manners and con-ect education, 
he did not scruple to come to him for advice in his present 
difficulties. Ralph, fully comprehending his distress, and con- 
scious how little of his fault had been premeditated, — estima- 


REMORSE. 209 

ting, too, the many good qualities apparent in his character — 
did not withhold his counsel. 

“ I can say little to you now, Forrester, in the way of advice, 
so long as you continue to herd with the men who have already 
led you into so much mischief. You appear to me, and must 
appear to all men, while coupled with such associates, as volun- 
tarily ch csing your ground, and taking all the consequences of 
its positicn. As there would seem no necessity for your dwel- 
ling lon/yer among them, you certainly do make your choice in 
thus con> inuing their associate.” 

“Not so much a matter of choice, now, ’squire, as you ima- 
gine. It was, to be sure, choice at first, hut then I did not know 
the people I had to deal with ; and when I did, you see, the 
circumstances were altered.” 

“ How, — by what means'?” 

“ Why, then, ’squire, you must know, and I see no reason to 
koop the thing from you, I took a liking, a short time after I 
cam^ here, to a young woman, the daughter of one of our peo- 
ple, and she to me — at least so she says, and I must confess 
I’m not ur willing to believe her ; though it is difficult to say — 
these women you know — ” and as he left the unfinished sen- 
tence, he glanced significantly to the youth’s face, with an 
expression which the latter thus interpreted — 

“ Are '^'^v would say, at all times to he relied on.” 

“Why, no, 'squi*e — I would not exactly say that — that 
might he something too much of a speech. I did mean to say, 
from what v\ e see daily, that it isn’t always they know their 
own minds.” 

“ There is some truth, Forrester, in the distinction, and I 
have thought so before. I am persuaded that the gentler 
sex is far less given to deceit than our own ; but their opin- 
ions and feelings, on the other hand, are formed with infinitely 
more frequency and facility, and are more readily acted 
upon by passing and occasional influences. Their very sus- 
ceptibility to the most light and casual impressions, is, of itself, 
calculated to render vacillating their estimate of things and 
characters. They are creatures of such delicate COiistruction, 
and their affectici's are of such like chatacteri that, like all fine 
machinery they are perpetually operated Oh by the atmosphere 


210 


GUY RIVERS. 


tlie winds, tli -3 dew, find the night. I'he frost blights and the 
sun blisters ; and a kin ^ or stern accent elevates or depresses, 
where, with us, it might pass unheeded or unheard. 

“We are more cunning — more shy and cautious ; and seldom, 
after a certain age, let our affections out of our own custody. 
We learn very soon in life — indeed, we are compelled to learn, 
ill our own defence, at a very early period — to go into the 
world as if we were going into battle. W e send out spies, 
keep sentinels on duty, man our defences, carry arms in our 
bosoms, which we cover with a buckler, though, with the policy 
of a court, w^e conceal that in turn with a silken and embroidered 
vestment. We watch every erring thought — we learn to be 
eq^uivocal of speech ; and our very hearts, as the Indians ph s.se 
it, are taught to speak their desires with a double tongue. We 
are perpetually on the lookout for enemies and attack; we 
dread pitfalls and circumventions, and we feel that every face 
which we encounter is a smiling deceit — every honeyed word 
a blandishment meant to betray us. These are lessons which 
society, as at present constituted, teaches of itself. 

“ With women the case is essentially different. They have 
few of these influences to pervert and mislead. They have 
nothing to do in the market-place — they are not candidates for 
place or power — they have not the ambition which is always 
struggling for state and for self ; but, with a wisdom in this, that 
might avail us wonderfully in all other respects, th ^y are kept 
apart, as things for love and worship — donv .ic divinities, 
whose true altar-place is the nreside; wh' j true sway is 
over fond hearts, generous sensibilities, and mn:' « date honor. 
Whore should they learn to contend with guile — to accpiire 
cunning and circumspection — to guard the heart — to keep 
sweet affections locked up coldly, like mountain waters'? Shall 
w'o wonder that they sometimes deceive thhmselves rather than 
their neighbors — that they sometimes misapprehend their own 
feelings, and mistake for Iv/e some less absorbing intruder, who 
but lights upon the heart f 'r a single instant, as a bird upon his 
spray, to rest or to plume his pinions, ar 1 be off with the very 
iiext iephjri*. But all this is wide of the mark, Forrester, and 
k^jfep's you from yOtir Stoty.” 

" ish’t ttititiij Master ColletOiij and is easily told. I 


REMORSE. 


211 


lovft Kate Allen, and as I said before, I believe Kate loves me; 
and though it be scarcely a sign of manliness to confess so 
much, yet I must say to you, ’squire, that I love her so very 
much that I can not do without her. 

“I honor your avowal, Forrester, and see nothing unmanly 
or unbecoming in the sentiment you profess. On the contrary, 
such a feeling, in my mind, more truly than any other, indicates 
the presence and possession of those very qualities out of which 
true manhood is made. The creature who prides himself chiefly 
upon his insensibilities, has no more claim to be considered a 
human being than the trees that gather round us, or the rocks 
over which we travel.” 

“Well, ’squire, I believe you are right, and I am glad that 
such is your opinion, for now I shall be able to speak to you 
more freely upon this subject. Indeed, you talk about the 
thing so knowingly, that I should not be surprised, ’squire, to 
find out that you too had something of the same sort troubling 
your heart, though here you are travelling far from home and 
among strangers.” 

The remark of Forrester was put with an air of arch inquiry. 
A slight shadow passed over and clouded the face of the youth, 
and for a moment his brow was wrinkled into sternness ; but 
hastily suppressing the awakened emotion, whatever its origin 
might have been, he simply replied, in an indirect rebuke, which 
his companion very readily comprehended : — 

“ You were speaking of your heart, I believie, Forrester, and 
not of mine. If you please, we will confine ourselves to the 
one territory, particularly as it promises to find us sufficient 
employment of itself, without rendering it necessary that we 
should cross over to any other.” 

“ It’s a true word, ’squire — the business of the one territory 
is sufficient for me, at this time, and more than I shall well get 
through with : but, though I know this, somehow or other I 
want to forget it all, if possible ; and sometimes I close my eyes 
in the hope to shut out ugly thoughts.” 

“ The feeling is melancholy enough, but it is just the one 
which should test your manhood. It is not for one who has 
bedil all his life buffeting With the world and ill-fortune, to de- 
gpoiid at etery iilisebatice or misdeed. Proceed Witli yoUr nar 


212 


GUY RIVERS. 


rative ; and, in providing for the future, you will be able to 
forget not a little of the past.” 

“You are right, ’squire; I will be a man, and stand my 
chance, whether good or ill, like a man, as I have always been. 
Well, as I was saying, Kate is neither unkind nor unwilling, 
and the only difficulty is with her father. He is now mighty 
fond of the needful, and won’t hear to our marriage until I have 
a good foundation, and something to go upon. It is this, you 
see, which keeps me here, shoulder to shoulder with these men, 
whom I like just as little perhaps as yourself ; and it was be- 
cause the soldiers came upon us just as I was beginning to lay 
up a little from my earnings, that made me desperate. I dreaded 
to lose what I had been so long working for ; and whenever the 
thought of Kate came through my brain, I grew rash and ready 
for a^ny mischief — and this is just the way in which I ran head- 
long into this difficulty.” 

“ It is melancholy, Forrester, to think that, with such a feel- 
ing as that you profess for this young woman, you should be so 
little regardful of her peace or your own ; that you should plunge 
so madly into strife and crime, and proceed to the commission 
of acts which not only embitter your life, but must defeat the 
very hopes and expectations for which you live.” 

“ It’s th^ nature of the beast,” replied the woodman, with a 
melancholy shake of the head, in a phrase which has become a 
proverb of familiar use in the South. “ It’s the nature of the 
beast, ’squire : I never seem to think about a thing until it’s all 
over, and too late to mend it. It’s a sad misfortune to have 
such a temper, and so yesterday’s work tells me much more 
forcibly than I can ever tell myself. But what am I to do, 
’squire 1 that’s what I want to know. Can you say nothing to 
me which will put me in better humor — can yoU give me no 
advice, no consolation? Say anything — anything which will 
make me think less about this matter.” 

The conscience of the unhappy criminal was indeed busy, 
and he spoke in tones of deep, though suppressed emotion and 
energy. The youth did not pretend to console — he well knew 
that the mental nature would have its course, and to withstand 
or arrest it Would only have the effect of further provokitlg its 
tttojffildity. fle replied calmly, but feelitigly— - 


REMOllSfe. 


21B 


“ Yoiir situation is unhappy, Forrester, and calls for seriouo 
reflection. It is not for me to offer advice to one so much more 
experienced than myself. Yet my thoughts are at your service 
for what they are worth. You can noti of course, hope to re- 
main in the country after this ; yet, in flying from that justice 
to which you will have made no atonement, you will not neces- 
sarily escape the consequences of your crime, which, I feel sat- 
isfied, will, for a long season, rest heavily upon a spirit such as 
yours. Your confederates have greatly the advantage of you 
in this particular. The fear of human penalties is with them 
the Only fear. Your severest judge will be your own heart, and 
from that you may not fly. With regard to your affections, I 
can say little. I know not what may be your resources — your 
means of life, and the nature of those enterprises which, in anoth- 
er region, you might pursue. In the W est you would be secure 
from punishment j the wants of life in the wilderness are few, 
and of easy attainment : why not marry tlie young woman, and 
let her fly with you to happiness and safety 

“And wouldn’t I do so, ’squire ? — I would be a happy fellow 
if I could. But her father will never consent. He had no hand 
in yesterday’s business, and I wonder at that too, for he’s mighty 
apt at all such scrapes ; and he will not therefore be so very 
ready to perceive the necessity of my flight — certainly not of 
hers, she being his only child ; and, though a tough old sort of 
chap, he’s main fond of her.” 

“ See him about it at once, then ; and, if he does not consent, 
the only difficulty is in th^elay and further protraction of your 
union. It would be very easy, when you are once well settled, 
to claim her as your wife.” 

“ That’s all very true and very reasonable, ’squire ; but it’s 
rather hard, this waiting. Here, for five years, have I been 
playing this sort of game, and it goes greatly against th4 grain 
to have to begin anew and in a new place. But here’s where 
the old buck lives. It’s quite a snug farm, as you may see. 
He’s pretty well off, and, by one little end or the other, con- 
trives to make it look smarter and smarter every year; hut 
then he’s just as close as a corkscrew, and quite mean in his 


214 


GJY RIVERS. 


her close. Make yourself quite at home, as I do. I make free, 
for you see the old people have all along looked upon me as a 
son, seeing that I am to be one at some time or other.” 

They were now at the entrance of as smiling a cottage as the 
lover of romance might well desire to look upon. Everything 
had a cheery, sunshiny aspect, looking life, comfort, and the 
“ all in all content and, with a feeling of pleasure kindled 
anew in his bosom by the prospect, Ealph complied readily 
with the frank and somewhat informal invitation of his compan- 
ion, and was soon made perfectly at home by the freedom and 
ease which characterized the manners of the young girl who 
descended to receive them. A slight suffusion of the cheek and 
a downcast eye, upon the entrance of her lover, indicated a 
gratified consciousness on the part of the maiden which did not 
look amiss. She was seemingly a gentle, playful creature, ex- 
tremely young, apparently without a thought of guile, and alto- 
gether untouched with a solitary presentiment of the unhappy 
fortunes in store for her. 

Her mother, having made her appearance, soon employed the 
youth in occasional discourse, which furnished sufficient oppor- 
tunity to the betrothed to pursue their own conversation, in a 
quiet corner of the same room, in that under-tone which, where 
lovers are concerned, is of all others the most delightful and 
emphatic. True love is always timid : he, too, as well as fear, 
is apt to “ shrink back at the sound himself has made.” His 
words are few and the tones feeble. He throws his thoughts 
into his eyes, and they speak enough for all his purposes. On 
the present occasion, however, he was dumb from other influ- 
ences, and the hesitating voice, ihe guilty look, the unquiet 
manner, sufficiently spoke, on the part of her lover, what his 
own tongue refused to whisper in he ears of the maiden. He 
strove, but vainly, to relate the melancholy event to which we 
have already sufficiently alluded. His words were broken and 
confused, but she gathered enough, in part, to comprehend the 
affair, though still ignorant of the precise actors and sufferers. 

The heart of Katharine was one of deep-seated tenderness, 
and it may not be easy to describe the shock which the intelli- 
gence gave her. She did not hear him through without ejacu- 
lations of horror, sufficiently fervent and loud to provoke the 


REMORSE. 


215 


glance of hei’ mother, who did not, however, though turning her 
looks frequently upon the two, venture upon any inquiry, or 
offer any remark. The girl heard her lover patiently; hut 
when he narrated the catastrophe, and told of the murder of 
the guard, she no longer struggled to restrain the feeling, now 
too strong for suppression. Her words broke through her lips 
quickly, as she exclaimed — 

“But you, Mark — you had no part in this matter — you lent 
no aid — you gave no hand. You interfered, I am sure you did, 
to prevent the murder of the innocent men. Speak out, Mark, 
and tell me the truth, and relieve me from these horrible appre- 
hensions.” 

As she spoke, her small hand rested upon his wrist with a 
passionate energy, in full accordance with the spirit of her lan- 
guage. The head of the unhappy man sank upon his breast ; 
his eyes, dewily suffused, were cast upon the floor, and he spoke 
nothing, or inarticulately, in reply. 

“ What means this silence — what am I to believe — what am 
T to think, Mark Forrester t You can not have given aid to 
Ihose had men, whom you yourself despise. You have not so 
far forgotten yourself and me as to go on with that wicked man 
Rivers, following his direction, to take away life — to spill blood 
as if it were water ! You have not done this, Mark. Tell me 
at once that I am foolish to fear it foi an instant — that it is 
not so.” 

He strove, hut in vain, to reply. The inarticulate sounds 
came fo'-th chokingly from his lips without force or meaning. 
He strode impatiently up and down the apartment, followed by 
the young and excited maiden, who unconsciously pursued him 
with repeated inquiries; while her mother, awakened to the 
necessity of interference, vainly strove to find a solution of the 
mystery, and to quiet both of the parties. 

“Will you not speak to me, Mark ? Can you not, will you 
not answer 1” 

The unhappy man shook his head, in a perplexed and irri- 
tated manner, indicating his inability to reply — but concluding 
with pointing his finger impatiently to Ralph, who stood up, a 
surprised and anxious spectator of the scene. The maiden 
seemed to comprehend the intimation, and with an energy and 


216 


GUr RIVEIi<^. 


boldness that would not well describe her accustomed habit 
w ith a hurried step, crossed the apartment to where stood the 
youth. Her eye was quick and searching — her words broken, 
but with an impetuous flow, indicating the anxiety which, while 
it accounted for, sufficiently excused the abruptness of her ad- 
dress, she spoke : — 

“ Do, sir, say that he had no hand in it — that he is free from 
the stain of blood ! Speak for him, sir, I pray you ; tell me — 
he will not tell himself !” 

The old lady now sought to ititerpose, and to apologize for 
her daughter. 

“Why, Kate, Katharine — forgive her, sir; Kate — Katha- 
rine, my dear — you forget. You ask questions of the stranger 
without any consideration.” 

But she spoke to an unconscious auditor; and Forrester, 
though still almost speechless, now interposed : — 

“ Let her ask, mother — let her ask — let her know it all. He 
can say what I can not. He can tell all. Speak out, ’squire — 
speak out ; don’t fear for me. It must come, and who can bet • 
ter tell of it than you, who know it all 

Thus urged, Ralph, in a few words, related the occurrence. 
Though carefully avoiding the use of epithet or phrase which 
might color with an increased odium the connection and conduct 
of Forrester with the affair, the ofience admitted of so little 
apology or extenuation, that the delicacy with which the de- 
tails were narrated availed but little in its mitigation ; and an 
involuntary cry burst from mother and daughter alike, to which 
the holLw n oan that came from the lips of Forrester furnished 
a fitting cr o. 

“And this is all true, Mark — must I believe all this?” was 
the inquiry of the young girl, after a brief interval. There v/as 
a desperate precipitance in the reply of Forrester; — 

“True — Kacharine — true; every word of it is true. Do* 
you not see it written in my face? Am I not choked — do not 
my knees tremble? and my hands — look for yourself — are 
the/ not covered with blood?” 

The youth interposed, and for a moment doubted the sanity 
of his companion. He had spoken in figure — a mode of speech, 
which it is a mistake in rhetoricians to ascribe only to an arti- 


REMORSE. 


217 


ficial origin, during a state of mental quiet. Deep passion and 
strong excitements, we are bold to say, employ metaphor large- 
ly ; and, upon an inspection of the criminal records of any 
country, it will be found that the most comn on narrations from 
persons deeply wrought upon by strong circumstances are 
abundantly stored with the evidence of what ws assert. 

' “ And h . w came it, Mark was the inquiry of the maiden ^ 

“ and why did you this thing ?” ^ 

“ Ay, you may well ask, and wonder. I can not tell you. I 
was a fool — I was mad ! I knew not what I did. From one 
thing I went on to anotnar, and I knew nothing of what had 
been done until all was done. Some devil was at my elbow — 
some devil at my heart. I feel it there still • I am not yet fixie. 
I could do more — I could go yet farther. I could finish the 
damned work by another crime ; and no crime either, since T 
should be the only victim, and well de.serving a worse punish- 
ment.” 

The offender was deeply excited, and felt poignantly. For 
some time it tasked all the powers of Ralph’s mind, and the 
seductive blandishments of the maiden herself, to allay the 
fever of his spirit ; when, at length, he was something restored, 
the dialogue was renewed by an inquiry of the old lady as to, 
the future destination of her anticipated son-in-law, for whom, 
indeed, she entertained a genuine affection. 

“ And what is to be the end of all this, Mark ? What is it 
your purpose to do — where will you fly?” 

“To the nation, mother — wdiere else? I must fly some- 
where — give myself up to justice, or — ” and he paused in the 
sentence so unpromisingly begun, while his eyes rolled with un- 
accimomed terrors, and his voice grew thick in his throat. 

“Or what — what mean you by that word, that look, Mark? 
I do not understand you ; why speak you in this way, and t > 
me ?” exclaim^od the maiden, passionately interrupting him in 
a speech, wh’ch, though strictly the creature of his morbid 
spirit and present excitement, was perhaps unnecessarily and 
something too wantonly indulged in. i 

“Forgive me, Katharine — dear Katharine — but you little 
know the madness and the misery at my heart.” 

“ And have you no thought of mine, Mark ? this deed of yours 

10 


218 


GUY RIVBilS. 


has brought misery, if not madness, to it too ; and speech like 
this might well be spared us now !” 

“ It is this very thought, Kate, that I have made you misera- 
ble, when I should have striven only to make you happy. Tin* 
thought, too, that I must leave you, to see you perhaps never 
again — these unman — these madden me, Katharine; and I 
feel desperate like the man striving with his brother upon tho 
plank in the broad ocean.” 

‘‘ And why part, Mark? I see not this necessity !” 

“Would you have me stay and perish? would you behold 
me, dragged perhaps from your own arms before the stern 
judge, and to a dreadful death ? It will be so if I stay much 
Lnger. The state will not suffer this thing to pass over. The 
crime is too large — too fearful. Besides this, the Pony Club 
have lately committed several desperate offences, which have 
already attracted the notice of the legislature. This very guard 
had been ordered to disperse them ; and this affair will bring 
down a sufficient force to overrun all our settlements, and they 
may even penetrate the nation itself, where we might otherwise 
find shelter. There will be no safety for me.” 

The despondence of the woodman increased as he spoke; 
• and the young girl, as if unconscious of all spectators, in the 
confiding innocence of her heart, exclaimed, while her head 
sunk up )n his shoulder : — 

“And why, Mark, may we not all fly together? There will 
be no reason now to remain here, since the miners are all to be 
dispersed.” 

“Well said, Kate — well said— ” responded a voice at the 
entrance nf the apartment, at the sound of which the person 
addressed started with a visible trepidation, which destroyed 
all her previous energy of manner ; “ it is well thought on 
Kate; there will, sure enough, be very little reason now foi 
any of us to remain, since this ugly busin^jss; and the only 
question is as to what quarter we shall go. There is, however 
just as little reason for our flight in company with Mark For- 
rester.” 

It was the father of the maiden who spoke — -one w^ho was 
the arbiter ''.f her destinies, and so much the dictatof in bij 
household and over his family, that from his decision nod >0- 


remorse:: . 21 9 

tliority there was suffered no appeal. Without pausing for a 
reply, he proceeded : — 

“ Our course, Mark , must now lie separate. You will take 
your route, and I mine ; we can not take them together. As for 
my daughter, she can not take up with you, seeing your present 
condition. Your affairs are not as they were when I consented 
to your engagement ; therefore, the least said and thought about 
past matters, the better.” 

“But — ” was the beginning of a reply from the sad and dis- 
carded lover, in which he was not suffered to proceed. The 
old man was firm, and settled further controversy in short 
order. 

“No talk, Mark — seeing that it’s no use, and there’s no oc- 
casion for it. It must be as I say. I cannot permit of Kate’s 
lionnection with a man in your situation, who the very next 
moment may be brought to the halter and bring shame upon 
her. Take your parting, and try to forget old times, my good 
fellow. I think well of, and am sorry for you, Mark, but I can 
do nothing. The girl is my only child, and I must keep her 
from harm if I can.” 

Mark battled the point with considerable warmth and vigor, 
and the scene was something further protracted, but need not 
here be prolonged. The father was obdurate, and too much 
dreaded by the members of his family to admit of much prayer 
or pleading on their part. Apart from this, his reason, though 
a stern, was a wise and strong one. The intercession of Colle- 
ton, warmly made, proved equally unavailing ; and after a brief 
but painful parting with the maiden, Forrester remounted his 
horse, and, in company "p-ith the youth, departed for the village. 
Bo’-, the adieus the lovers, in this instance, were not destined 
to be the last. In the naTOw passage, in which, removed from 
all sight and scrutiny, she br.ng droopingly, like a storm-beaten 
flower, upon his bosom, he sohVited, and not unsuccessfully, a 
piivate and a parting interview. 

“ To-night, then, at the old sycamore, as the moon rises,” he 
whispered, in her ear, as sadly and silently she withdrew from 
his embrace. 


220 


GFY RIVERS. 


CHAPTER XYill. 

PARTING AND FLiaKT. 

With Ralph, the unhappy woodman, thus even denied to 
hope, returned, more miserable than before, to the village of 
Ohestatee. The crowd there had been largely diminished. 
The more obnoxious among the offenders — those who, liaving 
taken the most prominent part in the late affair, apprehciuu'd 
the severest treatment — had taken themselves as much out of 
sight as possible. Even Munro and Rivers, with a!i their hardi- 
hood, were no longer to be seen, and those still lingering in the 
village were such as under no circumstances might well provoke 
suspicion of “ subtle deed and counter enterprise.” They were 
the fat men, the beef of society — loving long speeches and 
goodly cheer. The two friends, for so we may call them, were 
left almost in the exclusive possession of the hotel, and without 
observation discussed their several plans of departure. For- 
rester had determined to commence his journey that very night ; 
while Ralph, with what might seem headstrong rashness, chose 
the ensuing day for a like purpose. 

But the youth was not without his reasons for this determina- 
tion. He knew perfectly well that he was in peril, but felt also 
that this peril would be met with much more difficulty by night 
than by day. Deeming himself secure, comparatively speaking, 
while actually in the village, he felt that it would be safer to 
remain there another night, than by setting off at m. id-day, en- 
counter the unavoidable risk of either pursuing his course 
through the night in that dangerous neighborhood, where every 
step which he took might be watched, or be compelled to stop 
at some more insulated position, in wjiich there must be far less 
safety. He concluded, therefore, to set off at early dawn on the 


PARTING AND FJAGHT. 


221 


ensuing morning, and calculated, with the advantage of daylight 
all the way, through brisk riding, to put himself by evening be- 
yond the reach of his enemies. That he was not altogether 
permitted to pursue this coiu-se, was certainly not through any 
neglect of preparatory arrangement. 

The public table at the inn on that day was thinly attended ; 
and the repast was partaken by all parties in comparative si- 
lence. A few words were addressed by Colleton to Lucy Mun- 
ro, but they were answered, not coldly, but sparingly, and her 
replies were entirely wanting in their usual spirit. Still, her 
locks signified for him the deepest interest, and a significant 
’ motion of the finger, which might have been held to convey a 
warning, was all that he noted of that earnest manner which 
had gratified his self-esteem in her habit heretofore. The day 
v.'as got through with diflBculty by all parties ; and as evening 
approached, Forrester, having effected all his arrangements 
w ithout provoking observation, in the quiet and privacy of the 
youth’s chamber, bade him farewell, cautioning him at the same 
time against all voluntary risk, and reminding him of the neces- 
sity, while in that neighborhood, of keeping a good lookout. 
Their courses lay not so far asunder but that they might, for a 
time, have p’.f-ceeded together, and with more mutual advan- 
tage ; but the suggestions and solicitations of Forrester on this 
subject were alike disregarded by Ralph, with wliat reason we 
may not positively say, but it is possible that it arose from a 
prudential reference to the fact that the association of one fly- 
ing from justice was not exactly such as the innocent should 
desire. And this was reason enough. 

They separateO; and the youth proceeded to the preparation 
for his own contemplated departure. His pistols were in readi- 
ness, with his dirk, on the small table by the side of diis bed ; 
his portmanteau lay alike contiguous; and before seeking his 
couch, which he did at an early hour, he himself had seen that 
his gccd steed had been well provided with corn and fodder. 
The sable groom, too, whose attentions to the noble animal 
from the first, stimulated by an occasional bit of silver, liad 
been unremitted, was now further rewarded, and promised 
faithfully to be in readiness at any hour. Thus, all things ar- 
ranged, Ralph returned to his chamber, and without removing 


222 


GUY RIVEBS. 


Ills dress, wrapping Lis cloak around him, he threw himself upoi 
his couch, and addressed himself to those slumhers which were 
destined to be of no very long continuance. 

Forrester, in the meanwhile, had proceeded with all the im- 
patience of a lover to the designated place of tryst, under the 
giant sycamore, the sheltering limbs and leaves of which, on 
sundry previous occasions, had ministered to a like purpose. 
The place was not remote, or at least would not he so consid- 
ered in country estimation, from the dwelling of the maiden ; 
and was to be reached from the latter S2)ot by a circuitous pas- 
sage through a thick wood, which covered the distance between 
entirely. The spot chosen for the meeting was well known to’ 
both parties, and we shall not pretend, at this time of day, to 
limit the knowledge of its sweet fitness for the purposes of 
love, to them alone. They had tasted of its sweets a thousand 
times, and could well understand and appreciate that air of 
romantic and fairy-like seclusion which so much distinguished 
it, and which served admirably in concert with the uses to 
which it was now appropriated. The tree grew within and 
surmounted a little hollow, formed by the even and combined 
natural descents, to that common centre, of four hilh beautifully 
grouped, which surrounded and completely fenced it in. Their 
descents were smooth and even, without a singN abruptness, to 
the bottom, in the centre of which rose the sycamore, which, 
from its own situation, conferred the name of Sycamore Hollow 
on the sweet spot upon which it stood. A spring, trickling from 
beneath ifs roots, shaded by its folding branches from the thirsty 
heats of the summer sun, kept up a low and continuous prattle 
with the pebbles over which it made its way, that consorted 
sweetly with the secluded harmonies that o^ermantled, as with 
a mightji wing, the sheltered place. 

Scenes like these are abundant enough in the southern coun- 
try ; and by their quiet, unobtrusive, and softer beauties, would 
seem, and not inefficiently or feebly, to supply in most respects 
the wants of those bolder characteristics, in which nature in 
those regions is confessedly deficient. Whatever may be the 
want of southern scenery in stupendousness or sublimity, it is, 
we are inclined to believe, more than made up in those thousand 
quiet and wooing charms of location, which seem designed ex- 


PARTING AND FLIGHT. 


223 


pressly for the hamlet and the cottage — the evening dance — 
the mid-day repose and rural banquet — and all those number 
less practices of a small and well-intentioned society, which 
will the affections into limpid and living currents, touched for 
ever, here and there, by the sunshine, and sheltered in their 
repose by overhanging leaves and flowers, for ever fertile and 
for ever fresh They may not occasion a feeling of solemn 
awe, but they eiikinJIe i.ne of admiring affection; and where 
the mountain and the bald rock would be productive of emo- 
tions only of strength and sternness, their softer featurings of 
brawling brook, bending and variegated shrubbery, wild flower, 
gadding vine, and undulating hillock, mould the contemplative 
spirit into gentleness and love. The scenery of the South below 
the mountain regions, seldom impresses at first, but it grows 
upon acquaintance ; and in a little while, where once all things 
looked monotonous and unattractive, we learn to discover sw'eet 
influences that ravish us from ourselves at every step we take, 
into worlds and wilds, where all is fairy-like, wooing, and un- 
changingly sweet. 

The night, though yet Avithout a ^poon, was beautifully clear 
and cloudless. The stars had come out with all their brightness 
— a soft zephyr played drowsily and fitfully among the tops of 
the shrubbery, that ' ly, as it Avere, asleep on the circling hill- 
tops around ; while Jie odors of complicated charm from a 
thousand floral knots, Avhich had caught blooms from the rain- 
bows, and dyefl themselves in their stolen splendors, tliickly 
studding the wild and matted grass wliich sustained IhcTrs, 
brought along with them even a stronger influence than the 
rea':, of rh« scene, and might have taught a ready lesson of love 
to much sterner spirits tb.an the tAvo, now so unhappy, Avho Avere 
there to take their parting 5-' . ( last embrace. 

The swift motion of a galloping steed Avas heard, and Forres- 
ter was at the place and hour of appointment. In mournful 
mood, he threw himself at the foot of one of the hills, upon one 
of the tufted roots of the huge tree which sheltered the little 
hollow, and resigned himself to a somewhat bitter survey of his. 
own condition, and of the privations and probable straits into 
which his rash thoughtlessness had so unhappily involved him. 
JJIs horse, docile and well-trained, stood unfastened in th^ 


224 


GUY r-I7ERS. 


thicket, cropping the yourg and tender herbage at son e IHtle 
distance ; bnt so habituated to ride that no other secoriiy than 
his own will was considered by his master necessary for his 
continued presence. The lover waited not long. Descending 
the hill, through a nanvw pathway (me side of the wood, well 
known and frequently trodden by b-lh, he beheld the approach 
of the maiden, and hurried forward to receive her 

The terms upon which they had so long stood forbade con- 
straint, and put at defiance all those formalities which, under 
other circumstances, might have grown out of the meeting. 
She advanced without hesitancy, and the hand of her lover 
grasped that which she extended, his aim passed about her, his 
lip was fastened to her own without hlnderance, and, in that 
one sweet embrace, in that one moment of blissful forgetfulness, 
all other of life’s circumsL^-e. yen had ceased to afflict. 

But they were not hap 1,7 oven at that moment of delight and 
illusion. The gentler spirit of the maiden’s sex was uppermost, 
and the sad story of his crime, which at their last meeting had 
been told her, lay with heavy influence at her heart. She was 
a gentle creature, and thojigh dwelling in a wilderness, such is 
the prevailing influence upon female character, of the kind of 
education acquirable in the southern, — or, we may add, and 
thus perhaps furnish the reason for any peculiarity in this 
respect, the slave-holding states — that sis partook in a large 
degree of that excessive delicacy, as well of spirit as of person, 
which, while a marked characteristic of that entire region, is 
apt to become of itself a disease, exhibiting itself too frequently 
ill a nervousness and timidity that unfit its owne/ for the ruder 
necessities of life, and permit it to abide only under its more 
serene and summer aspects. The tale of blood, and its awful 
ccnsequences, were perpetually recurring to her imagination. 
Her fancy described and dwelt upon its details, her thoughts 
wove it into a thousand startling' tissues, until, though believing 
his crime unpremeditated, she almost shrank from the embrace 
of her lover, because of the blood so recently upon his hands. 

, Placing her beside him upon the seat he^had occupied, he ten- 
derly rebuked her gloomy manner, while an inward and painful 
consciousness of its cause gave to his voice a hesitating tremor, 
and his eye, heretofore un(]^uailing at any glance, no longer 


t>ARTING AND FLIGHT. 225 

bold, now shrank downcast before the tearful emphasis of 
hers. 

“You have come, Kate — come, according to your promise, 
yet you wear not loving looks. Your eye is vacant — your 
heart, it beats sadly and hurriedly beneath my hand, as if there 
were gloomy and vexatious thoughts within.” 

“ And should I not be sad, Mark, and should you not be sad ? 
Gloom and sorrow befit our situations alike; though for you I 
feel more lhan for myself. I think not so much of our parting, 
as of your misfortune in having partaken of this crime. There 
is to me but little occasion for grief in the temporary separation 
■which I am sure will precede our final union. But this dread- 
ful deed, Mark — it is this that makes me sad. The knowledge 
that you, whom I thought too gentle wantonly to -crush the 
crawling insect, should have become the slayer of men — of 
innocent men, too — makes my heart bleed within, and my eyes 
fill ; and when I think of it, as indeed I now think of little 
else, and feel that its remorse and all its consequences ^nust 
haunt you for many years, I almost think, with my father, that 
it would be better we should see each other no more. I think 
I could see you depart, knowing that it was for ever, without a 
tear, were this sin not upon your head.” 

“ Your words are cruel, Kate ; but you can not speak to my 
spirit in language more severe than it speaks momentarily to 
itself. I never knew anything of punishment before ; and the 
first lesson is a bitter one. Your w'»rds touch me but little now, 
as the tree, when the axe has once girdled it, has no feeling for 
any further stroke. Forbear then, dear Kate, as you love 
yourself. Brood not upon a subject that brings pain with it tc 
your own spirit, and has almost , ‘ased, except in its conse- 
quences, to operate upon mine. L^t us now speak of those 
things which concern you nearly, and me not a little — of the 
only thing, which, besides this deed of death, troubles my 
thought at this moment. Let us speak of oiu- future hope — if 
hope there may be for me, after the stern sentence which your 
lips uttered in part even now.” 

“ It was for you — for your saiely, believe me, Mark, that I 
spoke ; my own heart was wrung with the language of my lips 
— the language of my cooler thought. I spoke only for your 

10 * 


226 


GUY 


safety and not for myself. Could — I again repeat — cd ild tins 
deed be undone — could you be free from tbe reproach and 
the punishment, I would be content, though the strings of 
my heart cracked with its own doom, to forego all claim upon 
you— to give you up — to give up my own hope of happiness for 
ever.” 

Her words were passionate, and at their close her head sunk 
upon his shoulder, while her tears gushed forth without restraint, 
and in defiance of all her efforts. The heart of the -woodman 
was deeply and painfully affected, and the. words refused to 
leave his lips, while a kindred anguish shook his manly frame, 
and rendered it almost a difficulty with him to sustain the slight 
fabric of hers. With a stern effort, however, he recovered 
himself, aiid reseating her upon the bank from which, in the 
agitation of the moment, they had both arisen, he endeavored 
to soothe her spirit, by unfolding his plan of future life. 

“My present aim is the nation — I shall cross the Chestatee 
river to-morrow, and sball push at once for the forest of Etowee, 
and beyond the Etowou river. I know the place well, and 
have been through it before. There i shall linger until I hear 
all the particulars of this affair in its progress, and determine 
upon my route accordingly. If the stir is great, as I reckon it 
will be, I shall push into Tennessee, and perhaps go for the 
Mississippi. Could I hope tl.at your father would consent to 
remove, I should at once do this and make a settlement, where, 
secure from inteiTuption and aU. together, we might live happily 
and honorably for the future.^' 

“ And why not do so now — .. ay stop at all among the Chero- 
kees? Why not go at onf;s into Missiosippi, and begin the 
world, as you propose in the end to do V 

“ What ! and leave you for r — now Kate, you are indeed 
cruel. I had not thought to have listened to such a recom- 
mendation from one who loved me as you profess.” 

“As I do, Mark — I say nothing which T do not feel. It 
does not follow that you will be any nigher your object, if my 
father continue firm in his refusal, though nigher to me, by 
lingering about in the nation. On the contrary, will he not, 
hearing of you in the neighborhood, be more close in his re- 
straints upon me ? Will not your cliance of exposure, too, be 


l^AliTlNG AND FLIGHt. 


221 


6b Inucli tlie greater, as to make it incumbent upon him to 
pursue his determination with rigor ? while, on the other hand, 
if you remove yourself but of all reach of Georgia, in the 
Mississippi, and there begin a settlement, I am sure that he will 
look upon the affair with different notions.” 

“ It can not be, Kate — it can not be. You know I have had 
but a single motive for living so long among this people and in 
these parts. I disliked both, and only lingered with a single 
hope, that I might be blessed with your presence always, and 
in the event of my sufficient success, that I might win you 
altogether for myself. I have not done mudi for this object, 
and this unhappy affair forbids me for the present to do more. 
Iff not this enough, Katharine, and must I bury myself from you 
a thousand miles in the forest, ignorant of what may be going 
on, and without any hope, such as I have lived for before ? Is 
the labor I have undergone — the life I have led — to have no 
fruits ? Will you too be the first to recommend forgetfulness ; 
to overthrow my chance of happiness? No — it must not be. 
Hear me, Kate — hear me, and say I have not worked alto- 
gether in vain. I have acquired some little by my toils, and 
can acquire more. There is one thing now, one blessing which 
you may afford, and the possession of which will enable me to 
go with a light heart and a strong hand into any forests, winning 
comforts for both of us — happiness, if the world have it — and 
nothing to make us afraid.” 

He spoke with deep energy, and she looked inquiringly into 
his face. The expression was satisfactory, and she replied 
without hesitation : — 

“I understand you, Mark Forrester — I understand you, but 
it must not be. I must regard and live for affections besides 
my own. Would you have me fly for ever from those who have 
been all to me — from those to whom I am all — from my father 
— from my dear, my old mother! Fy, Mark.” 

“ And are you not all to me, Katharine ■ — the one thing for 
which I would live, and wanting which I care not to live ? Ay, 
Katharine, fly with me from all — and yet not for ever. They 
will follow you, and our end will then be answered. Unless 
you do this, they would linger on in this place without an ob- 
ject, even if permitted, which is very doubtful, to hold their 


22S GUt RlVDRg. 

ground — enjoying life as a vegetable, and dead before lifft 
itself is extinct.” 

“ Spare your speech, Mark— -on this point you urge me in vain,” 
was the firm response of the maiden. Though I feel for you as 
as T feel for none other, I also feel that I have other ties and 
bther obligations, all inconsistent with the step which you would 
have me take. I will not have you speak of it further — on 
this particular I am immoveable.” 

A shade of mortification clouded the face of Forrester as she 
uttered these words, and for a moment he was silent. Resuming, 
at length, with something of resignation in his manner, he con- 
tinued — 

“ Well, Kate, since you will have it so, I forbear ; though, 
what course is left for you, and what hope for me, if your father 
continues in his present humor, I am at a loss to see. There is 
one thing, however — there is one pledge that I would exact 
from you before we part.” 

He took her hand tenderly as he spoke, and his eyes, glisten 
ing with tearful expectation, were fixed upon her own ; but she 
did not immediately reply. She seemed rather to await the 
naming of the pledge of which he spoke. There was a struggle 
going on between her mind and her affections ; and though, in 
the end, the latter seemed to obtain the mastery, the sense of 
propriety, the moral guardianship of her own spirit battled 
sternly and fearlessly against their suggestions. She would 
make no promise which might, by any possibility, bind her to 
an engagement inconsistent with other and primary obligations. 

“ I know not, Mark, what may be the pledge which you would 
have from me, to which I could consent with propriety. When 
I hear your desires, plainly expressed to my understanding, I 
shall better know how to reply. You heard the language of my 
father : I must obey his wishes as far as I know them. Though 
sometimes rough, and irregular in his habits, to me he has been 
at all times tender and kind : I would not now disobey his com- 
mands. Still, in this matter, my heart inclines too much in 
your favor not to make me less scrupulous than I should other- 
wise desire to be. Besides, I have so long held myself yours, 
and with his sanction, that I can the more easily listen to your 
entreaties. If, then you truly love me, you will, I am sure, 


PARTING AND FLIGHT. 


ask nothing that I should not grant. Speak — what is the 
pledge ?” 

“ It shall come with no risk, Kate, believe me, none. Heaven 
forbid that I should bring a solitary grief to your bosom ; yet 
it may adventure in some respects both mind and person, if you 
be not wary. Knowing your father, as you know him too, I 
would have from you a pledge — a promise, here, solemnly ut- 
tered in the eye of Heaven, and in the holy stillness of this 
place, which has witnessed other of our vows no less sacred and 
solemn, that, should he sanction the prayer of another who 
seeks your love, and command your obedience, that you will 
not obey — that you will not go quietly a victim to the altar — 
that you will not pledge to another the same vow which has 
been long since pledged to me.” 

He paused a moment for a reply, hut she spoke not; and 
with something like impetuosity he proceeded: — 

“ You make no reply, Katharine 1 You hear my entreaty — 
my prayer. It involves no impropriety ; it stands in the way 
of no other duty, since, I trust, the relationship between us is 
as binding as any other which may call for your regard. All 
that I ask is, that you will not dispose of yourself to another, 
your heart not going with your hand, whatever may he the au 
thority which may require it ; at least, not until you are fully 
assured that it is beyond my power to claim you, or I become 
unworthy to press the claim.” 

“ It is strange, Mark, that you should speak in a manner of 
which there is so little need. The pledge long since uttered as 
solemnly as you now require, under these very houghs, should 
satisfy you.” 

“ So it should, Kate — and so it would, perhaps, could I now 
reason on any subject. But my doubts are not now of your 
love, hut of your firmness in resisting a control at variance with 
your duty to yourself. Your worda reassure me, however ; and 
now, though with no glad heart, I shall pass over the border, 
and hope for the better days which are to make us happy.” 

“ Not so fast. Master Forrester,” exclaimed the voice of old 
Allen, emerging from the cover of the sycamore, to the shelter 
of which he had advanced unobserved, and had been the unsus- 
pected auditor of the dialogue from first to last. The couple. 


|30 


GUY RIVERS. 


with an awkward consciousness, started up at tlie speech, taken 
by surprise, and neither uttering a word in reply to this sudden 
address'. 

“ You must first answer, young man, to the charge of advising 
my daughter to disobedience, as I have heard you for the last half 
hour ; and to elopement, which she had the good sense to refuse. 
I thought. Master Forrester, that you were better bred than to 
be guilty of such offences.” 

“ I know them not as such, Mr. Allen. I had your own sanc- 
tion to my engagement with Katharine, and do not see that 
after that you had any right to break it off.” 

“You do not — eh? Well, perhaps, you are right, and I 
have thought better of the matter myself ; and, between us, 
Kate has behaved so well, and spoken so prettily to you, and 
obeyed my orders, as she should have done, that I’m thinking 
to look more kindly on the whole affair.” 

“Are you, dear father ? — Oh, I am so happy !” 

“Hush, minx! the business is mine, and none of yours. — 
Hark you, Mark. You must fly — there’s no two ways about 
that; and, between us, there will be a. devil of a stir in this 
matter. I have it from good authority that the governor will 
riddle the whole nation but he’ll have every man, woman, and 
child, concerned in this difficulty : so that’ll be no place for you. 
You must go right on to the Massassippiy and enter lands enough 
for us all. Enter them in Kate’s name, and they’ll be secure. 
As soon as you’ve fixed that business, write on, say where you 
are, and we’ll be down upon you, bag and baggage, in no time 
and less.” 

“ Oh, dear father — this is so good of you 1” 

“ Pshaw, get away, minx 1 I don’t like kisses jest after sup- 
per ; it takes the taste all out of my mouth of what I’ve been 
eating.” 

Forrester was loud in his acknowledgments, and sought by 
eulogistic professions to do away the ill effect of all that he 
might have uttei’ed in the previous conversation ; but the old 
man cut him short with his wonted querulousness : — 

“ Oh, done with your blarney, boy 1 ‘ It’s all my eye and 

Betty Martini’ Won’t you go in and take supper? There’s 
something left, I reckon.” 


PARTING AND FLIGHT. 


281 


But Forrester had now no idea of eating, and declined ac- 
cordingly, alleging his determination to set off immediately 
upon his route-— a determination which the old man highly ap- 
proved of. 

“ You are i-ight, Mark — m *vc’s the word, and the sooner you 
go about it the better. Here’s my hand on your bargain, and 
good-by — T reckon you’ll have something more to say to Kate, 
and I suppose you don’t wart me to help you in saying it — so 
T leave you. Shx/s used t: the w^ay ; and, if she’s at all afraid, 
you can easily sie her home.” 

With a few more words the old man took his departure, leav- 
ing the y nng people as happy now as he had before found 
them sad and sorrowful. They did not doubt that the reason 
of this change was as he alleged it, and gave themselves nff 
thought as to causes, satisfied as they were with effects. Bu. 
old Allen had not proceeded without his host : he had been ad- 
vised of the contemplated turn-out of all the squatters from the 
gold-region ; and, having no better tenure than any of his neigh- 
bors, he very prudently made a merit of necessity, and took hi? 
measures as we have seen. The lovers were satisfied, and their 
interview now wore, though at parting, a more sunshiny com- 
plexion. 

But why prolong a scene admitting of so little variety as 
that which describes the sweets, and the strifes, and the sor- 
rows, of mortal love? We take it there is no reader of nov- 
els so little conversant with matters of this nature as not to 
know how they begin and how they end ; and, contenting our- 
selves with separating the parties — an act hardhearted enough, 
in all conscience — ve shall not with idle and questionable sym- 
pathy dwell upon sorrows of their separation. We may 
utter a remark, how '.ver, which the particular instance before 
us occasions, in relation to the singular influence of love upon 
the mental and moral character of the man. There is no influ- 
ence in the world’s circumstance so truly purifying, elevating, 
and refining. It instils high and generous sen lirr cuts ; it ennor 
hies human endeavor ; it sanctifies defeat and denial ; it polishes 
manners ; it gives to morals a tincture of devotion ; and, as with 
the spell of magic, such as Milton describes in “ Comus,” it dis- 
sipates with a glance the wild rout of low desires and ipsane 


j232 


GUY RIVERS. 


follies wliich so much blur and blot up the otherwise fair face 
of human society. It permits of no meanness in its train ; it 
expels vulgarity, an?, with a high stretch toward perfected hu- 
manity, It uueartl s the grovelling nature, and gives it aspira- 
tions cf scui and sunshine. 

Its effect upon Forrester had been of this description. It had 
been his only tutor, and had taught him nobly in numberless 
respects. In every association with the maiden of his affections, 
his tone, his language, his temper, and his thoughts, seemed to 
undergo improvement and purification. He seemed quite an- 
other man whenever he came into her presence, and whenever 
the thought of her was in his heart. Indeed, such was the 
‘effect of this passion upon both of them ; though this may have 
heen partially the result of other circumstances, arising from 
their particular situation. For a long time they had known 
few enjoyments that were not intimately connected with the 
image of one another ; and thus, from having few objects besides 
of contemplation or concern, they refined upon each other. As 
the minute survey in the forest of the single leaf, which, for 
years, may not have attracted the eye, unfolds the fine veins, 
the fanciful outline, the clear, green, and transparent texture, 
ind the delicate shadowings of innumerable hues won from the 
skies and the sunshine — so, day by day, surveying the single 
object, they had become familiar with attractions in one another 
which the passing world would never have supposed either of 
them to possess. In Bitch a region, wdiere there are few com- 
petitors for human love and regard, the heart clings with hun- 
gering tenacity to the few stray affections that spring up, here 
and there, like flowers dropped by some kindly, careless hand, 
making a bloom and a blessing for the untrodden wilderness. 
Nor do they blossom there in vain, since, as the sage has told 
us, there is no breeze that wafts not life, no sun that brings not 
smiles, no water that bears not refreshment, no flower that has 
not charms and a solace, for some heart that could not w^ell hope 
to be happy without them. 

They separated on the verge of the copse to which he had 
attended her, their hands having all the way been passionately 
linked, and a seal having been set upon their mutual vows by 
the long, loving embrace which concluded their interview. The 


Parting anp plight. 


233 


cottage was in sigtt, and, from the deep shade which surrounded 
him, he beheld her enter its precincts in safety ; then, returning 
to the place of tryst, he led .forth his steed, and, with a single 
hound, was once more in his saddle, and once more a wanderer, 
The cheerlessness of such a fate as that before him, even undei* 
the changed aspect of his ajfiPairs, to those unaccustomed to the 
rather too migratory habits of our southern and western people, 
would seem somewhat severe; hut the only hardship in his 
present fortune, to the mind of Forrester, was the privation and 
protraction of his love-arrangements. The wild, woodland ad- 
venture common to the habits of the people of this class, had a 
stimulating effect upon his spirit at all other times ; and, even 
now — though perfectly legitimate for a lover to move slowly 
from his mistress — the moon just rising above the trees, and 
his horse in full gallop through their winding intricacies, a 
warm and bracing energy came to his aid, and his heart grew 
cheery under its inspiriting influences. He was full of the future, 
rich in anticipation, and happy in the contemplation of a thou- 
sand projects. With a free rein he plunged forward into the 
recesses of the forest, dreaming of a cottage in the Mississippi, 
a heart at ease, and Katharine Allen, with all her beauties, for 
ever at hand to keep it so 


234 


(iUY RIVERS. 


CHAPTER XIX. 

MIDNIGHT SURPRISE. 

The night began to wane, and still did Lucy Munro keep 
lonely vigil in her chamber. How could she sleep ? Threat- 
ened with a connection so dreadful as to her mind was that pro- 
posed with Guy Rivers — deeply interested as she now felt her- 
self in the fortunes of the young stranger, for whose fate and 
safety, knowing the unfavorable position in which he stood with 
the outlaws, she had everything to apprehend — it can cause no 
wonder when we say sleep grew a stranger to her eyes, and 
without retiring to her couch, though extinguishing her light, 
she sat musing b,y the window of her chamber upon the thou- 
sand conflicting and sad thoughts that were at strife in her 
spirit. She had not been long in this position when the sound 
of approaching horsemen reached her ears, and after a brief in- 
terval, during which she could perceive that they had alighted, 
she heard the door of the hall gently unclosed, and footsteps, 
set down with nice caution, moving through the passage. A 
light danced for a moment fitfully along the chamber, as if 
borne from the sleeping apartment of Munro to that adjoining 
the hall in which the family were accustomed to pursue their 
domestic avocations. Then came an occasional murmur of 
speech to her ears, and then silence. 

Perplexed with these circumstances, and wondering at the 
return of Munro at an hour something unusual — prompted too 
by a presentiment of something wrong, and apprehensive on the 
score of Ralph’s safety — a curiosity not, surely, under these cir- 
cumstances, discreditable, to know what was going on, deter- 
mined her to ascertain something more of the character of the 
nocturnal visitation. She felt from the strangeness of 


MIDNIGHT SURPRISE. 


285 


tlie occiu-reiice, that evil was afoot, and solicitous for its pre- 
vention, she was persuaded t9 the measure solely with the view 
to good. 

Hastily, hut with trembling hands, undoing the door of her 
apartment, she made her way into the long, dark gallery, with 
which slie was perfectly familiar, ind soon gained the apart- 
ment already referred to. The dcor fortunately stood neaily 
closed, and she successfully passed it by and gained the hall, 
which immediately adjoined, and lay in perfect darkness. 
Without herself being seen, she was enabled, through a crevice 
in the partition dividing the two rooms, to survey its inmates, 
and to hear distinctly everything that was uttered. 

As she expected, there were the two conspirators, Rivers and 
Munro, earnestly engaged in discourse ; to which, as it concerns 
materially our progress, we may well be permitted to lend our 
attention. They spoke on a variety of topics entirely foreign 
to the understanding of the half-affrighted and nervously-suscep- 
tible, but still resolute young girl who heard them ; and nothing 
but her deep anxieties for one, whose own importance in her 
eyes at that moment she did not conjecture, could have sus- 
tained her while listening to a dialogue full of atrocious inten- 
tion, and larded throughout with a familiar and sometimes foul 
phraseology that certainly was not altogether unseemly in such 
association. 

“ Well, Blundell’s gone too, they say. He’s heartily fright- 
ened. A few more will follow, and we must both be out of the 
vay. The rest could not well be identified, and whether they 
are or not does not concern us, except that they may blab of their 
confederates. Such as seem likely to suffer detection must be 
frightened off ; and this, by the way, is not so difficult a matter. 
Pippin knows nothing of himself. Forrester is too much in- 
volved to be forward. It was for this that I aroused and set 
him on. His hot blood took fire at some little hints that I 
threw out, and the fool became a leader in the mischief. 
There’s no danger from him; besides, they say, he’s off too. 
Old Allen has broken off the match between him and his 
daughter, and the fellow’s almost mad on the strength of it. 
There’s but one left who might trouble us, and it is now under- 


236 


-GUY RIVERS. 


stood that but one mode offers for his silence. We arc perfect- 
ly agreed as to this, and no more scruples.’* 

The quick sense of the maiSen readily taught her who was 
meant; and her heart trembled convulsively within her, as, 
with a word, Munro, replying to Rivers, gave his assent. 

“Why, yes — it must be done, I suppose, though somehow 
or other I would it could be got rid of in any other way.” 

“You see for yourself, Wat, there can be no other way ; for 
as long as he lives, there is no security. The few surviving 
guard will be seen to, and they saw too little to be dangerous. 
They were like stunned and stupified men. This boy alone 
was cool and collected, and is so obstinate in what he knows 
and thinks, that he troubles neither himself nor his neighbors 
with doubt or difficulty. I knew him a few years ago, when 
something more of a boy than now ; and even then he w^as the 
same character.” 

“ But why not let him start, and take the woods for it 1 How 
easy to settle the matter on the roadside, in a thousand different 
ways. The accumulation of these occun’ences in the village, 
as much as anything else, will break us up. I don’t care for 
myself, for I expect to be off for a time ; but I want to see the 
old woman and Lucy keep quiet possession here — ” 

“You are becoming an old woman yourself, Wat, and should 
be under guardianship. All these scruples are late; and, in- 
deed, even were they not, they would be still useless. We 
have determined on the thing, and the sooner we set about it 
the better. The night wanes, and I have much to see to before 
daylight. To-morrow I must sleep — sleep — ” and for a mo- 
ment Rivers seemed to muse upon the word sleep, which he 
thrice repeated ; then suddenly proceeding, as if no pause had 
taken place, he abruptly placed his hand upon the shoulder of 
Munro, and asked — 

“ You will bear the lantern ; this is all you need perform. 1 
am resolute for the rest.” 

“ What will you use-— dirk? 

“Yes — it is silent in its ofSce, and not less sure. Are all 
asleep, think you— your wife?” 

“ Quite so — sound wheii 1 entered the chamber.” 

“Well, the sooiiei* to busiiles§ the better. Is there water in 


MIDNIGHT SURPRISE. 237^ 

ilat pitcher 1 lam strangely thirsty to-night ; brandy were not ' 
amiss at such a time.” 

And speaking this to himself, as it were, Rivers approached 
the side-table, where stood the commodities he sought. In this 
approach the maiden had a more perfect view of the malignities • 
of his savage face; and as he left the table, and again com- 
menced a brief conversation in an under-tone with Munro, no • 
longer doubting the dreadful object which they had in view, - 
she seized the opportunity with as much speed as was consist- • 
ent with caution and her trembling nerves, to leave the place ’ 
of espionage, and seek her chamber. 

But to what purpose had she heard all this, if she suffered* 
the fearful deed to proceed to execution ? The thought was- 
momentary, but carried to her heart, in that moment, the fullest- 
conviction of her duty. 

She rushed hurriedly again into the passage — and, though' 
apprehex.ding momentarily that her knees would sink from 
under her, took her way up the narrow flight of steps leading: 
into the second story, and to the youth’s chamber. As she' 
reached the door, a feminine scruple came over her. A young girll 
seeking the apartment of a man at midnight - - she shrunk baclc 
with a new feeling. But the dread necessity drove her on,, 
and with cautious hand undoing the latch securing the door by 
thrusting her hand through an interstice between the logs — 
wondering at the same time at the incautious manner in whiclr,. 
at such a period and place, the youth had provided for his sleep- 
ing hours — she stood tremblingly within the chamber. 

Wrapped in unconscious slumbers, Ralph Colleton lay dream- 
ing upon his rude couch of a thousand strange influences and: 
associations. His roving fancies had gone to and fro, betweem 
his uncle and his bewitching cousin, until his heart grew 
softened and satisfied; not less with the native pleasures v/hicli 
they revived in his memory, than of the sweet oblivion which 
they brought of the many painful and perilous prospects Avith 
which he had more recently become familiar. He had no* 
thought of the present, and the pictures of the past were all 
rich and ravishing. To his wandering sense at that moment 
there came a sweet vision of beauty and love — of an affection 
warmly cherished — green as the summer leaves — fresh as its 


238 


GUY RIVERS. 

flowers — flinging odors about his spirit, and re-awakening in 
its fullest extent the partially slumbering passion- — reviving 
many a hope, and provoking with many a delicious anticipa- 
tion. The form of the one, lovely beyond comparison, flitted 
before him, while her name, murmured with words of passion 
by his parted -lips, carried with its utterance a sweet promise 
of a pure faith, and an unforgetting affection. Never once.' 
since the hour of his departure from home, had he, in his wa- 
king moments, permitted that name to find a place upon his 
lips, and now syllabled into sound by them in his unconscious 
dreams, it fell with a stunning influence upon an auditor, whose 
heart grew colder in due proportion with the unconscious but 
warm tenderness of epithet with which his tongue coupled its 
utterance. 

The now completely unhappy Lucy stood sad and statue- 
like. She heard, enough to teach her the true character of her 
own feelings for one, whose articulated dreams had revealed 
the secret of his passion for another ; and almost forgetting for 
a while the office upon which she had come, she continued to 
give ear to those sounds which brought to her heart only addi- 
tional misery. 

How long Ralph, in his mental wanderings, would have gone 
on, as we have seen, incoherently developing his heart’s history, 
may not be said. Gathering courage at last, with a noble ener- 
gy, the maiden proceeded to her proposed duty, and his slum- 
bers were broken. With a half-awakened consciousness he 
raised himself partially up in his couch, and sought to listen. 
He was not deceived ; a whispered sentence came to his ears, 
addressed to himself, and succeeded by a pause of several mo- 
ments’ continuance. Again his name was uttered. Half doubt- 
ing his senses, he passed his hand repeatedly over his eyes, and 
again listened for the repetition of that voice, the identity of 
which he had as yet failed utterly to distinguish. The sounds 
were repeated, and the words grew more and more distinct 
He now caught in part the tenor of the sentence, though imper- 
fectly heard. It seemed to convey some warning of danger, 
and the person who spoke appeared, from the tremulous ac- 
cents, to labor under many apprehensions. The voice proceed- 
ed with increased emphasis, advising his instant departure from 


MIDNIGHT BUHDRISE. 


239 


the house — speaking of nameless dangers — of murderous in- 
trigue and conspiracy, and warning against even the delay of a 
single instant. 

The character of Ralph was finely marked, and firmness of 
purpose and a ready decision were among its most prominent 
attributes. Hastily 1 'aping from his couch, therefore, with a 
single bound he reached the door of bis chamber, which, to his 
astonishment, he found entirely unfastened. The movement 
was so sudden and so entirely unlooked-for, that the intmder 
was taken by surprise; and beheld, while the youth closed 
securely the entrance, the hope of escape entirely cut ofi*. 
Ralph advanced toward his visiter, the dim outline of whose 
person was visible upon the wall. Lifting his arm as he ap- 
proached, what was his astonishment to perceive the object of 
his assault sink before him upon the floor, while the pleading 
voice of a woman called upon him for mercy. 

“Spare me, Mr. Colleton — spare me” — she exclaimed, in 
undisguised terror. 

“ You here. Miss Munro, and at this hour of the night !” was 
the wondering inquiry, as he lifted her from the floor, her 
limbs, trembling with agitation, scarcely able to support even 
her slender form. 

“ Forgive me, sir, forgive me. Think not ill of me, I pray 
you. I come to save you, — indeed, Mr. Colleton, I do — and 
nothing, believe me, would have brought me here but the knowb 
edge of your immediate danger.” 

She felt the delicacy of her situation, and recognising her 
motive readily, we will do him the justice to say, Ralph felt it 
too in the assurance of her lips. A respectful delicacy pervaded 
his manner as he inquired earnestly : — 

“ What is this danger. Miss Munro ? I believe you fear for me, 
but may you not have exaggerated the cause of alarm to your- 
self? What have I to fear — from what would you save me?” 

“Nay, ask me not, sir, but fly. There is but little time for 
explanation, believe me. I know and do not imagine the dan- 
ger. I can not tell you all, nor can you with safety bestow the 
time to hear. Your murderers are awake — they are in this 
very house, and nothing but instant flight can save you from 
their hands.” 


MO 


GUY mVEHS. 


“B.jt fiom wliom, Miss Munro, am I to fear all this? What 
has given you this alarm, which, until you can give me some 
clue to this mystery, I must regard as unadvised and without 
foundation. I feel the kindness and interest of your solicitude 
— deeply feel, and greatly respect it; hut, unless you can give 
me some reasonable ground for your fears, I must be stubborn 
in resisting a connection which would have me fly like a mid^ 
night felon, without having seen the face of my foe.” 

“ Oh, heed not these false scruples. There is no shame in 
such a flight, and believe me, sir, I speak not unadvisedly. 
Nothing, but the most urgent and immediate danger would have 
prompted me, at this hour, to come here. If you would survive 
this night, take advantage of the warning and fly. This mo- 
ment you must determine — I know not, indeed, if it be not too 
late even now for your extrication. The murderers, by this 
time, may be on the way to your chamber, and they will not 
heed your prayers, and they will scorn any defence which you 
might ofier.” 

“ But who are they of whom you speak. Miss Munro ? If I 
must fly, let me at least know from what and whom. What are 
my offences, and whom have I offended ?” 

“ That is soon told, though I fear, sir, we waste the time in 
doing so. You have offended Rivers, and you know but little 
of him if you think it possible for him to forget or forgive 
where once iniured, however slightly. The miners generally 
have been taught to icg^ird you as one whose destruction alone 
can insure their safety from punishment for their late aggres 
sions. My uncle too, I grieve to say it, is too much under the 
influence of Rivers, and does indeed just what his suggestions 
prescribe. They have plotted your death, and will not scruple 
at it^erformance. They are even now below meditating its 
execution. By the merest good fortune I overheard their de- 
sign, from which I feel persuaded nothing now can make them 
recede. Rely not on their fear of human punishment. They 
care perhaps just as little for the laws of man as of God, both 
of which they violate hourly with impunity, and from both of 
which they have always hitherto contrived to secure themselves. 
Let me entreat, therefore, that you will take no heed of that 
manful courage which would be honorable and proper with a 


MIDNIGHT SURPRISE. 


Ml 


fair enemy. Do not think that I am a victim to unmeasured 
and womanly fears. I have seen too much of the doings of 
these men, not to feel that no fancies of mine can do them injus- 
tice. They would murder you in your bed, and walk from tlie 
scene of their crime with confidence into the very courts of 
justice.” 

“ I believe you, Miss Munro, and nothing doubt the correct- 
ness of your opinion with regard to the character of these men- 
Indeed, I have reason to know that what you say of Rivers, I 
liave already realized in my own person. This attempt, if he 
makes it, will be the second in which ho has put my life in 
hazard, and I believe him, therefore, not too good for any 
attempt of this evil nature. But why may I not defend myself 
from the assassins 'I I can make these logs tenable till daylight 
from all their assaults, and then I should receive succor from 
the villagers without question. You see, too, I have arms which 
may prove troublesome to an enemy.” 

“ Trust not these chances ; let me entreat that you rely not 
upon them. Were you able, as you say, to sustain yourself for 
the rest of the night in this apartment, there would be no relief 
in the morning, for how would you make your situation under- 
stood 1 Many of the villagers will have flown before to-morrow 
into the nation, until the pursuit is well over, which will most 
certainly be commenced before long. Some of them have al- 
ready gone, having heard of the approach of the residue of the 
Georgia guard, to which the survivors at the late affair bore the 
particulars. Those who venture to remain will not come nigh 
this house, dreading to be involved in the difficulties which now 
threaten its occupants. Their caution would only be the more 
increased on hearing of any commotion. Wait not, therefore, 
I implore you, for the dawning of the day : it could never dawn 
to you. Rivers I know too well ; he would overreach you by 
some subtlety or other ; and how easy, even while we speak, to 
shoot you down through these uneven logs. Trast not, tiaist 
not, 1 entreat you ; there is a sure way of escape, and you still 
have time, if at once you avail yourself of it.” 

The maid spoke with earnestness and warmth, for the terrors 
of her mind had given animation to heir anxiety, while she 
Bougtit tc persuade the somewhat stubbofn youth into the pro* 

11 


242 


GUY RIVERS. 


posed and certainly judicious flight she contemplated for him. 
Her trepidation had made her part with much of that retreating 
timidity which had usually distinguished her manner; and per- 
fectly assured herself of the causes of her present apprehension, 
she did not scruple to exhibit — indeed she did not seem alto- 
gether conscious of — the deep interest, which she took in the 
fate and fortunes of him who stood beside her. 

Flattered as he must have been by the marked feeling, which 
she could neither disguise nor he mistake, the youth did not, how- 
ever, for a moment seek to abuse it ; but with a habit at once 
gentle and respectful, combated the various arguments and 
suggestions which, with a single eye to his safety, she urged for 
his departure. In so doing, he obtained from her all the par- 
ticulars of her discovery, and was at length convinced that her 
apprehensions were by no means groundless. She had acci- 
dentally come upon the conspirators at an interesting moment 
in their deliberations, which at once revealed their object and 
its aim ; and he at length saw that, except in flight, according 
to her proposition, the chances were against his escape at all. 
While they thus deliberated, the distant sound of a chair falling 
below, occurring at an hour so unusiud, gave an added force to 
her suggestions, and while it prompted anew her entreaties, 
greatly diminished his reluctance to the flight. 

“ I will do just as you advise. I know not. Miss Munro, Avhy 
my fate and fortune should have provoked in you such an inter- 
est, unless it he that yours being a less selfish sex than ours, 
you are not apt to enter into calculations as to the loss of cjuiet 
or of personal risk, which, in so doing, you may incur. What- 
ever he the motive, however, I am grateful for its effects, and 
shall hot readily forget the gentleness of that spirit which has 
done so much for the solace and the safety of one so sad in its 
aspect and so much a stranger in all respects.” 

The youth spoke with a tone and manner the most tender 
yet respectful, which necessarily relieved from all perplexity 
that feeling of propriety and maiden delicacy which otherwise 
must have made her situation an awkward one. Ralph was 
not so dull, however, as not to perceive that to a livelier emo- 
tion he might in justice attribute the conduct of his companion ; 
but, with a highly-honorable fastidiousness, he himself suggested 


MIDNIGHT SURPRISE. 


243 


a motive for lier proceeding wliicli lier own delicacy rendered 
improper for her utterance. Still the youth was not marble 
exactly ; and, as he spoke, his arm gently encircled her waist ; 
and her form, as if incapable of its own support, hung for a mo- 
ment, with apathetic lifelessness, upon his bosom ; while her 
head, with an impulse not difficult to define, drooped like a 
bending and dewy lily upon his arm. But the passive emotion, 
if we may so style it, was soon over ; and, with an effort, in 
which firmness and feebleness strongly encountered, she freed 
herself from his hold with an erect pride of manner, which gave 
a sweet finish to the momentary display which she had made 
of womanly weakness. Her voice, as she called upon him to 
follow her into the passage, w^s again firm in a moment, and 
pervaded by a cold ease which seemed to him artificial ; — 

“ There is but little time left you now, sir, for escape : it were 
criminal not to use it. Follow me boldly, but cautiously — I 
will lead the way — the house is familiar to me, in night and 
day, and there must be no waste of time.” 

He would have resisted this conduct, and himself taken the 
lead in the advance ; but, placing her small and trembling hand 
upon his arm, she insisted upon the course she had prescribed, 
and in a manner which he did not venture to resist. Their 
steps were slow into the open space which, seeming as an intro- 
duction to, at the same time separated the various chambers of 
the dwelling, and terminated in the large and cumbrous stair- 
way which conducted to the lower story, and to which their 
course was now directed. The passage was of some length, but 
with cautious tread they proceeded in safety and without noise 
to the head of the stairway, when the maiden, who still pre- 
served the lead, motioned him back, retreating herself, as she 
did so, into the cover of a small recess, formed by the stairs, 
which it partially overhung, and presenting a doubtful apology 
for a closet. Its door hung upon a broken and single hinge, 
unclosed — leaving, however, so small an aperture, that it might 
be difficult to account for their entrance. 

There, amid the dust and mystery of time-worn household 
trumpery, old saddles, broken bridles, and more than one dis- 
membered harness, they came to a pause, and were enabled 
uow to perceive the realization in part of her apprehensions 


244 


GUY EIVERS. 


A small lantern, the rays of light from which feebly made theii 
way through a single square in front, disclosed to the sight the 
dim forms of the two assassins, moving upward to the contem- 
plated deed of blood. 

The terrors of Lucy, as she surveyed their approach, were 
great; but, with a mind and spirit beyond those commonly in 
the possession of her sex, she was enabled to conquer and rise 
above them ; and, though her heart beat with a thick and hur 
ried apprehension, her soul grew calmer the more closely ap 
proached the danger. Her alarm, to the mind of Ealph, was 
now sufficiently justified, as, looking through a crevice in the 
narrow apartment in which he stood, he beheld the malignant 
and hell-branded visage of Eivers, peering like a dim and bale- 
ful light in advance of his companion, in whose face a partial 
glimmer of the lamp revealed a something of reluctance, which 
rendered it doubtful how far Munro had in reality gone willingly 
on the task. 

It was, under all the circumstances, a curious survey for the 
youth. He was a man of high passions, sudden of action, im- 
petuous and unhesitating. In a fair field, he would not have 
been at a loss for a single moment ; but here, the situation was 
so new, that he was more and more undetermined in his spirit. 
He saw them commissioned with his murder — treading, one by 
one, the several steps below him — approaching momently nigher 
and nigher — and his heart beat audibly with conflicting emo- 
tions ; while with one hand he grasped convulsively and desper- 
ately the handle of his dirk, the other being fully employed in 
sustaining the almost fainting form of his high-souled but deli- 
cate companion. He felt that, if discovered, he could do little 
in his defence and against assault ; and though without a thought 
but that of fierce struggle to the last, his reason taught him to 
perceive with how little hope of success. 

As the assassins continued to advance, he could distinctly 
trace every change of expression in their several countenances. 
In that of Eivers, linked with the hideousness that his wound 
conferred upon it, he noted the more wicked workings of a 
spirit, the fell character of whose features received no moderate 
exaggeration from the dim and flickering glare of the lamp 
which his hand unsteadily cirtied. The whole face had in i/ 


Midnight surprise. 


246 


nomething awfully fearful. He seemed, in its expression, al- 
ready striking the blow at the breast of his victim, or rioting 
with a fiendish revenge in his groaned agonies. A brief dia- 
logue between his companion and himself more fully describes 
the character of the monster. 

“ Stay — you hurry too much in this matter,” said Munro, 
putting his hand on that of Rivers, and restraining his steps for 
a moment as he paused, seemingly to listen. He continued — 

“ Your hand trembles, Rivers, and you let your lamp dance 
about too much to find it useful. Your footstep is un steady, 
and but now the stairs creaked heavily beneath you. You 
must proceed with more caution, or we shall be overheard. 
These are sleepless times, and this youth, wdio appears to 
tiouble you more than man ever troubled you before, may be 
just as much awake as ourselves. If you are determined in this 
thing, be not imprudent.” 

Rivers, who, on reaching the head of the flight, had been 
about to move forward precipitately, now paused, though with 
much reluctance ; and to the speech of his companion, with a 
fearful expression of the lips, which, as they parted, disclosed 
the teeth white and closely clinched beneath them, replied, 
though without directly referring to its import — 

“If I am determined — do you say! — But is not that the 
chamber where he sleeps 

“No; old Barton sleeps there — Tie. sleeps at the end of the 
gallery. Be calm — why do you work your fingers in that 
manner ?” 

“ See you not my knife is in them ? I thought at that mo- 
ment that^it was between his ribs, and working about in his 
heart. It was a sweet fancy, and, though I could not hear his 
groans as I stooped over him to listen, I almost thought I felt 
them.” 

The hand of the maiden grasped that of Ralph convulsively 
as these muttered words came to their ears, and her respiration 
grew more difficult and painful. He shuddered at the vindic- 
tive spirit which the wretch exhibited, while his own, putting 
on a feller and a fiercer temper, could scarcely resist the impulse 
which would have prompted him at once to rush forth and stab 
him where he stood. But the counsels of prudence had their 


246 


g6y rivJ:rs. 


influence, and he remained quiet and firm. The companion of 
the ruffian felt no less than his other hearers the savage nature 
of his mood, as thus, in his own way, he partially rebuked it ; 

“ These are horrid fancies, Rivers — more like those which 
we should ook to find in a panther than in a man ; and you de- 
light in them quite too much. Can you not kill your enemy 
without drinking his blood V* 

“ And where then would he the pleasure of revenge?” — he 
muttered, between his closed teeth. “ The soldier who in bat- 
tle slays his opponent, hates him not — he has no personal ani- 
mosity to indulge. The man has never crossed his path in love 
or in ambition — yet he shoots him down, ruthlessly and relent- 
lessly. Shall /ie do no more who hates, who fears, who sickens 
at the sight of the man who has crossed his path in love and in 
ambition ? I tell you, Munro, I hate this boy — this beardless, this 
overweening and insolent boy. He has overthrown, he has mor- 
tified me, where I alone should have stood supreme and superemi- 
nent. He has wronged me — it may be without intention ; but, 
what care I for that qualification. Shall it be less an evil because 
he by whom it is perpetrated has neither the soul nor the sense 
to be conscious of his error. The child who trifles with the 
powder-match is lessoned by the explosion which destroys him. 
It must be so with him. I never yet forgave a wrong, however 
slight and unimportant — I never will. It is not in my nature 
to do so ; and as long as this boy can sleep at night, I can not. 
T will not seek to sleep until he is laid to rest for ever !” 

The whole of this brief dialogue, which had passed directly 
beside the recess in which the maiden and youth had taken 
shelter, was distinctly audible to them both. The blood of 
Ralph boiled within him at this latter speech of the ruffian, in 
which he avowed a spirit of such dire malignity, as, in its utter 
disproportionateness to the supposed offence of the youth, could 
only have been sanctioned by the nature which he had declared 
to have always been his prompter ; and, at its close, the arm 
of the youth, grasping his weapon, was involuntarily stretched 
forth, and an instant more would have found it buried in the 
bosom of the wretch — but the action did not escape the quick 
eye of his companion, vho, though trembling with undiminished 
terror, was yet mistress of all her senses, and perceived the ill- 


Midnight surprise. 


24t 


advised nature of liis design. Witli a motion equally involun- 
tary and sudden with liis own, her taper fingers grasped his 
wrist, and her eyes bright with dewy lustres, were directed up- 
ward, sweetly and appealingly to those which now bent them- 
selves down upon her. In that moment of excitement and im- 
pending terror, a consciousness of her situation and a sense of 
shame which more than ever agitated her, rushed through her 
mind, and she leaned against the side of the closet for that sup- 
port for which her now revived and awakened scruples forbade- 
any reference to him from whom she had so recently received 
it. Still, there was nothing abrupt or unkind in her manner, 
and the youth did not hesitate again to place his arm around 
and in support of the form which, in reality, needed his strength. 
In doing so, however, a slight noise was the consequence, which 
the quick sense of Rivers readily discerned. 

“Hark! — heard you nothing, Munro — no sound? Hear 
you no breathing? — It seems at hand — in that closet.” 

“ Thou hast a quick ear to-night, Guy, as well as a quick 
step. I heard, and hear nothing, save the snorings of old Bar- 
ton, whose chamber is just beside you to the left. He has al- 
ways had a reputation for the wild music which his nose con- 
trives, during his sleep, to keep up in his neighborhood.” 

“ It came from the opposite quarter, Munro, and was not un- 
like the suppressed respiration of one who listens.” 

“ Pshaw 1 that can not be. There is no chamber there. 
That is but the old closet in which we store away lumber. 
You are quite too regardful of your senses. They will keep us 
here all night, and the fact is, I wish the business well over.” 

“ Where does Lucy sleep ?” 

“ In the off shed-room below. What of her ?” 

“ Of her — oh nothing I” and Rivers paused musingly in the 
utterance of tlv.c reply, which fell syllable by syllable from his 
lips. The landlord proceeded : — 

“ Pass on. Rivers ; pass on : or have you determined better 
about this matter ? Shall the youngster live ? Indeed, I see 
not that his evidence, even if he gives it, which I very much 
doubt, can do us much hann, seeing that a few days more will 
put us out of the reach of judge and jury alike.” 

“You would have made a prime counsellor and subtle dispu 


248 


GUY RIVEttS. 


tant, Munro, worthy of the Philadelphia lawyers,” returned the 
other, in a sneer. “ You think only of one part of this subject, 
and have no passions, no emotions : you can talk all day long 
on matters of feeling, without showing any. Did I not say 
but now, that while that boy slept I could not ?” 

“ Are you sure that when he ceases to sleep the case will be 
any better V 

The answer to this inquiry w^s unheard, as the pair passed 
on to the tenantless chamber. Watching their progress, and 
under the guidance of the young maiden, who seemed endued 
with a courage and conduct worthy of more experience and a 
stronger sex, the youth emerged from his place of precarious 
and uncomfortable concealment, and descended to the lower 
floor. A few moments sufficed to throw the saddle upon his 
steed, without arousing the sable groom ; and having brought 
him under the shadow of a tree at some little distance from the 
house, he found no further obstruction in the way of his safe 
and sudden flight. He had fastened the door of his chamber 
on leaving it, with much more caution than upon retiring for 
the night; and having withdrawn the key, which he now 
hurled into the woods, he felt assured that, unless the assassins 
had other than the common modes of entry, he should gain a 
little time from the delay they would experience from this in- 
terruption ; and this interval, returning to the doorway, he em- 
ployed in acknowledgments which were well due to the young 
and trembling woman who stood beside him. 

“ Take this little token, sweet Lucy,” said he, throwing about 
her neck the chain and casket which he had unbound from his 
own — “ take this little token of Ealph Colleton’s gratitude for 
this night’s good service. I shall redeem it, if I live, at a more 
pleasant season, but you must keep it for me now. I will not 
soon forget the devotedness with which, on this occasion, you 
have perilled so much for a stranger. Should we never again 
meet, I pray you to remember me in your prayers, and I shall 
always remember you in mine.” 

He little knew, while he thus spoke in a manner so humbly 
of himself, of the deep interest which hia uniform gentleness 
of manner and respectful deference, so different from what she 
bad been accustomed to encounter, had inspired in her bosom' 


MIDNIGHT SURPRISE. . 


- 249 


and so small at this period was his vanity, that he did not trust 
himself for a moment to regard the conjecture — which ever 
and anon thrust itself upon him — that the fearless devotion of 
the maiden in his behalf and for his safety, had in reality a far 
more selfish origin than the mere general humanity of her sex 
and spirit. We will not say that she would not have done the 
same by any other member of the human family in like circum- 
stances ; hut it is not uncharitable to believe that she would 
have been less anxiously interested, less warm in her interest, 
and less pained in the event of an unfortunate result. 

Clasping the gorgeous chain about her neck, his aim agam 
gently encircled her waist, her head drooped upon her bosom — 
she did not speak — she appeared scarcely to feel. For a mo- 
ment, life and all its pulses seemed resolutely at a stand ; and 
with some apprehensions, the youth drew her to his bosom, and 
spoke with words full of tenderness. She made no answer to 
his immediate speech ; but her hands, as if unconsciously, struck 
the spring which locked the casket that hung upon the chain, 
and the miniature lay open before her, the dim light of the 
moon shining down upon it. She reclosed it suddenly, and un- 
doing it from the chain, placed it with a trembling hand in his 
own ; and with an effort of calm and quiet playfulness, remind- 
ed him of the unintended gift. He received it, hut only to 
place it again in her hand, reuniting it to the chain. 

“ Keep it,” said he, “Miss Munro — keep it until I return to 
reclaim it. It will be as safe in your hands — much safer, in- 
deed, than in mine. She whose features it describes will not 
chide, that, at a moment of peril, I place it in the care of one 
as gentle as herself.” 

Her eyes were downcast, as, again receiving it, she inquired 
with a girlish curiosity, “ Is her name Edith, Mr. Colleton, of 
whom these features are the likeness !” 

The youth, surprised by the question, met the inquiry with 
another. 

“ How know you ? — wherefore do you ask ?” 

She saw his astonishment, and with a calm which had not, 
during the whole scene between them, marked her voice or de- 
Vieanor, she replied instantly: — 

“No matter— no matter, sir. I know not well why I pul 
11 * 


250 ■ 


GUY RIVERS. 


the question — certainly with no object, and am now more 
than answered.” 

The youth pondered over the affair in silence for a few mo- 
ments, but desirous of satisfying the curiosity of the maiden, 
though on a subject and in relation to one of whom he had 
sworn himself to silence — wondering, at the same time, not 
less at the inquiry than the knowledge which it conveyed, of 
that which he had locked up, as he thought, in the recesses of 
his own bosom — was about to reply, when a hurried step, and 
a sudden noise from the upper apartment of the house, warned 
them of the dangers of further delay. The maiden interrupted 
with rapid tones the speech he was about to commence : — 

“ Fly, sir — fly. There is no time to be lost. You have lin- 
gered too long already. Do not hesitate longer — you have 
heard the determination of E-ivers — this disappointment will 
only make him more furious. Fly, then, and speak not. Take 
the left road at the fork : it leads to the river. It is the dullest, 
and if they pursue, they will be most likely to fall into the 
other.” 

“Farewell, then, my good, my protecting angel — I shall not 
forget you — have no apprehensions for me — I have now but 
few for myself. Yet, ere I go — ” and he bent down, and be- 
fore she was conscious of his design, his lips were pressed 
warmly to her pale and beautiful forehead. “ Be not vexed — 
chide me not,” he murmured — “regard me as a brother — if I 
live I shall certainly become one. Farewell !” 

Leaping with a single bound to his saddle, he stood erect for 
a moment, then vigorously applying his spurs, he had vanished 
in an instant from the sigh". She paused in the doorway until 
the sounds of his hurrying progress had ceased to fall upon her 
ears; then, with a mourn \il spirit and heavy step, slowly re 
entered the apartment. 


THE OUTLAW AND HlS VICTIM. 


251 


CHAPTER XX. 

THE OUTLAW AND HIS VICTIM. 

Lucy Munro re-entered the dwelling at a moment most inop- 
portune. It was not less her obvious policy than desire — 
prompted as well by the necessity of escaping the notice and 
consequent suspicions of those whom she had defrauded of their 
prey, as by a due sense of that delicate prgpriety which be- 
longed to her sex, and which her education^ as the reader will 
have conjectured, had taught her properly to estimate — that 
made her now seek to avoid scrutiny or observation at the mo- 
ment of her return. Though the niece, and now under the sole 
direction and authority of Munro, she was the child of one as 
little like that personage in spirit and pursuit as may well be 
imagined. It is not necessary that we should dwell more par- 
ticularly upon this difference. It happened with the two broth- 
ers, as many of us have discovered in other cases, that their 
mental and moral make, though seemingly under the same tu- 
torship, was widely dissimilar. The elder Munro, at an early 
period in life, broke througli all restraints — defied all responsi- 
bilities — scorned all human consequences — took no pride or 
pleasure in any of its domestic associations — and was only 
known as a vicious profligate, with whom nothing might be 
done in the way of restraint or reformation. When grown to 
manhood, he suddenly left his parental home, and went, for a 
time, no one could say whither. When heard of, it appeared 
from all accounts that his licentiousness of habit had not de- 
serted him : still, however, it had not, as had been anticipated, 
led to any fearful or very pernicious results. Years passed on, 
the parents died, and the brothers grew more than ever sepa- 
rate; when, in different and remote communities, they each 
took wives to themselves. 


252 


G0Y RIVEHS. 


The younger, Edgar Munro, the father of Lucy, grew prO^ 
perous in business — for a season at least — and, until borne 
down by a rush of unfavorable circumstances, he spared neither 
pains nor expense in the culture of the young mind of that 
daughter whose fortunes are now somewhat before us. Noth- 
ing which might tend in the slightest to her personal improve- 
ment had been withheld ; and the due feminine grace and ac- 
complishment which followed these cares fitted the maiden foi* 
the most refined intellectual converscj and for every gentle as* 
sociation. She was familiar with books ; had acquired a large 
taste for letters ; and a vein of romantic enthusiasm, not uncom- 
mon to the southern temperament, and which she possessed in 
a considerable degree, was not a little sharpened and exagger- 
ated by the works which fell into her hands. 

Tenderly loved and gently nurtured by her parents, it was 
at that period in her life in which their presence and guardian- 
ship were most seriously needed, that she became an orphan * 
and her future charge necessarily devolved upon an uncle, be- 
tween whom and her father, since their early manhood, but 
little association of any kind had taken place. The one looked 
upon the other as too licentious, if not criminally so, in his hab^ 
its and pursuits ; he did not know their extent, or dream of 
1 heir character, or he had never doubted for an instant ; while 
he, in turn, so estimated, did not fail to consider and to style 
his more sedate brother an inveterate and tedious proser ; a dull 
sermonizer on feelings which he knew nothing about, and could 
never understand — one who prosed oh to the end of the chap- 
ter, without charm or change, worrying all about him with 
exhortations to which they yielded no regard. 

The parties were fairly quits, and there was no love lost be- 
tween them. They saw each other but seldom, and, when the 
surviving brother took up his abode in the new purchase, as the 
Indian acquisitions of modern times have been usually styled, 
he was lost sight of, for a time, entirely, by his more staid and 
worthy kinsman. 

Still, Edgar Munro did not look upon his brother as utterly 
bad. A wild indifference to social forms, and those staid cus- 
toms which in the estimation of society become virtues, was, in 
his idea, the most serious error of which Walter had been guilty 


THE OUTLAW AND HIS VICTIM. 


253 


In this thought he persisted to the last, and did not so much 
feel the privations to which his death must subject his child, in 
the belief and hope that his brother would not only be able but 
willing to supply the loss. 

In one respect he was not mistaken. The afflictions which 
threw the niece of Walter a dependant upon his bounty, and a 
charge upon his attention, revived in some measure his almost 
smothered and in part forgotten regards of kindred ; and with 
a tolerably good grace he came forward to the duty, and took 
the orphan to the asylum, such as it was, to which his brother’s 
death-bed prayer had recommended her. At first, there was 
something to her young mind savoring of the romance to which 
she had rather given herself up, in the notion of a woodland 
cottage, and rural sports, and wild vines gadding fantastically 
around secluded bowers; but the reality — the sad reality of 
such a home and its associations — pressed too soon and heavily 
upon her to permit her much longer to entertain or encourage 
the dream of that glad fancy in which she originally set out. 

The sphere to which she was transferred, it was soon evident, 
was neither grateful to the heart nor suited to the mind whose 
education had been such as hers ; and the spirit of the young 
maiden, at all times given rather to a dreamy melancholy than 
to any very animated impulses, put on, in its new abiding-place, 
a garb of increased severity, which at certain moments indicated 
more of deep and settled misanthropy than any mei'e constitu- 
tionality of habit. 

Munro was not at all times rude of speech and manner ; and, 
when he pleased, knew well how so to direct himself as to sooth 
such a disposition. He saw, and in a little while well under- 
stood, the temper of hfs niece ; and, with a consideration under 
all circumstances rather creditable, he would most usually defer, 
with a ready accommodation of his own, to her peculiarities. 
He was pleased and proud of her accomplishments ; and from 
being thus proud, so far as such an emotion could consistently 
comport with a life and a licentiousness such as his, he had 
learned, in reality, to love the object who could thus awaken 
a sentiment so much beyond those inculcated by all his other 
habits. To her he exhibited none of the harsh manner which 
maj.ked his in^^^ercourse with all other persons; and in his heart 


254 


GUY RIVERS. 


sincerely regretted, and sought to avoid the lecessity which, as 
we have elsewhere seen, had made him pledge her hand to Riv- 
ers — a disposition of it which he knew was no less galling and 
painful to her than it was irksome yet unavoidable to himself. 

Unhappily, however, for these sentiments, he was too much 
under the control and at the mercy of his colleague to resist or 
refuse his application for her person; and though for a long 
time baffling, under various pretences, the pursuit of that fero- 
cious ruffian, he felt that the time was at hand, unless some 
providential interference willed it otherwise, when the sacrifice 
would be insisted on and must be made ; or probably her safety, 
as well as his own, might necessarily be compromised. He 
knew too well the character of Rivers, and was too much in his 
power, to risk much in opposition to his will and desires : and, 
as we have already heard him declare, from having been at one 
time, and in some respects, the tutor, he had now become, from 
the operation of circumstances, the mere creature and instru- 
ment of that unprincipled wretch. 

Whatever may have been the crimes of Munro beyond those 
already developed — known to and in the possession of Rivers 
— and whatever the nature of those ties, as well of league as 
of mutual risk, which bound the parties together in such close 
affinity, it is not necessary that we should state, nor, indeed, 
might it be altogether within our compass or capacity to do so. 
-''^heir connection, had, we doubt not, many ramifications ; and 
was strengthened, there is little question, by a thousand mutual 
necessities, resulting from their joint and frequently-rej)eated 
violations of the laws of the land. They were both members 
of an irregular club, known by its constituents in Georgia as 
the most atrocious criminal that ever offended society or defied 
its punishments ; and the almost masonic mysteries and bond 
which distinguished the members provided them with a pledge 
of security which gave an added impetus to their already reck- 
less vindictiveness against man and humanity. In a country, 
the population of which, few and far between, is spread over a 
wide, wild, and little-cultivated territory, the chances of punish- 
ment for crime, rarely realized, scarcely occasioned a thought 
among offenders ; and invited, by the impunity which max'ked 
their atrocities, tbeir reiterated commission. W e have digressed. 


THE OUTLAW AND HIS VICTIM. 


256 


however, somewhat from our narrative, but thus much was ne- 
cessary to the proper understanding of the portions immediately 
before us, and to the consideration of which we now return. 

The moment was inopportune, as we have already remarked, 
at which Lucy Munro endeavored to elfect her return to her 
own apartment. She was compelled, for the attainment of this 
object, to cross directly over the great hall, from the room ad- 
joining and back of which the little shed-room projected in 
which she lodged. This hall was immediately entered upon 
from the passage-way, leading into the court in front, and but a 
few steps were necessary for its attainment. The hall had but 
a single outlet besides that through which she now entered, and 
this Jed at once into the adjoining apartment, through which 
only could she make her way to her ©wn. Unhappily, this pas- 
sage also contained the stairway flight which led into the upper 
story of the building ; and, in her haste to accomplish her re- 
turn, she had penetrated too far to effect her retreat, when a 
sudden change of direction in the light which Rivers carried 
sufficed to develop the form of that person, at the foot of the 
stairs, followed by Munro, just returning from the attempt 
which she had rendered fruitless, and now approaching directly 
toward her. 

Conscious of the awkwardness of her situation, and with a 
degree of apprehension which now for the first time seemed to 
paralyze her faculties, she endeavored, but with some uncer- 
tainty and hesitation of manner, to gain the shelter of the wall 
which stretched dimly beside her; a hope not entirely vain, 
had she pursued it decisively, since the lamp which Rivers car- 
ried gave forth but a feeble ray, barely adequate to the task of 
guiding the footsteps of those who employed it. But the glance 
of the outlaw, rendered, it would seem, more malignantly pene- 
trating from his recent disappointment, detected the movement ; 
and though, from the imperfectness of the light, uncertain of 
the object, with a ready activity, the result of a conviction that 
the long-sought-for victim was now before him, he sprang for 
ward, flinging aside the lamp as he did so, and grasping with 
one hand and with rigid* gripe the almost-fainting girl : the 
other, brandishing a bared kirife, was uplifted to stride, whe^i 
4er shrieks arrested the blow. 


256 


GUY RIVERS. 


Disappointed in not finding the object he sought, the fury of 
the outlaw was rather heightened than diminished when he dis 
covered that his arm only encircled a young and terrified fe* 
male ; and his teeth were gnashed in token of the bitter wrath 
in his bosom, and angry curses came from his lips in the undis- 
guised vexation of his spirit. In the meantime, Munro ad- 
vanced, and the lamp having been dashed out in the onset of 
Rivers, they were still ignorant of the character of their pris- 
oner, until, having somewhat recovered from her first alarm, and 
struggling for deliverance from the painful gripe which secured 
her arm, she exclaimed — 

“Unhand me, sir — unhand me, on the instant. What mean 
you by this violence V' ^ 

“ Ha ! it is you then, fair mistress, that have done this work. 
It is you that have meddled in the concerns of men, prying into 
their plans, and arresting their execution. By my soul, I had 
not thought you so ready or so apt ; but how do you reconcile 
it to your notions of propriety to be abroad at an hour which is 
something late for a coy damsel? Munro, you must look to 
these rare doings, or they will work you some difficulty in time 
to come.” 

Munro advanced and addressed her with some sternness — 
“ Why are you abroad, Lucy, and at this hour ? why this dis- 
quietude, and what has alarmed you ? — why have you left your 
chamber ?” 

The uncle did not obtain, nor indeed did he appear to expect, 
any answer to his inquiries. In the meanwhile. Rivers held pos- 
session of her arm, and she continued fruitlessly struggling for 
some moments in his grasp, referring at length to the speaker 
for that interference which he now appeared slow to manifest. 

“Oh, sir! will you suffer me to be treated thus — will you 
not make this man undo his hold, and let me retire to my cham- 
ber?” 

“ You should have been there long before this, Lucy,” was 
the reply, in a grave, stern accent. “ You must not complain, 
if, found thus, at midnight, in a part of the building remote from 
your chamber, you should be liable to suspicions of meddling 
with things which should not concern you.” 

Come, mistress — pray answer to this. Where have yon 


THE OUTLAW AND HIS VICTIM. 25? 

been to-night — what doing — why abroad? Have yon been 
eaves dropping — telling tales — hatching plots?” 

The natural ferocity of Rivers’s manner was rather height- 
ened by the tone which he assumed. The maiden, struggling 
still for the release for which her spirit would not suffer her to 
implore, exclaimed : — 

“ Insolent ! By what right do you ask me these or any ques- 
tions ? Unhand me, coward — unhand me. You are strong and 
brave only where the feeble are your opponents.” 

But he maintained his grasp with even more rigidity than be- 
fore ; and she turned towards the spot at which stood her uncle, 
but he had left the apartment for a light. 

“ Your speech is bold, fair mistress, and ill suits my temper. 
You must be more chary of your language, or you will provoke 
me beyond my own strength of restraint. You are my property 
— my slave, if I so please it, and all your appeals to your uncle 
will be of no effect. Hark you ! you have done that to-night 
for which I am almost tempted to put this dagger into your 
heart, woman as you are ! You have come between me and my 
victim — ^between me and my enemy. I had summed ^up all 
my wrongs, intending their settlement to-night. You have 
thwarted all my hopes — you have defrauded me of all my an- 
ticipations. What is it prevents me from putting you to death 
on the spot ? Nothing. I have no fears, no loves, to hold and 
keep me back. I live but for revenge, and that which stays 
and would prevent me from its enjoyment, must also become its 
victim.” 

At this moment, Munro returned with a lamp. The affright- 
ed girl again appealed to him, but he heeded her not. He soon 
left the passage, and the outlaw proceeded ; — 

“You love this youth — nay, shrink not back; let not your 
head droop in shame ; he is worthy of your love, and for this, 
among other things, I hate him. He is worthy of the love of 
others, and for this, toe, I hate him. Fool that you are, he cares 
not for you. ’Spite of all your aid to-night, he will not remem- 
-ber you to-morrow — he has no thought of you — his hope is 
built upon — he is wedded to another. 

“ Hear me, then ! your life is in my hands, and at my mercy 
There are none present who could interfere and arrest the blow. 


2S8 


GUY RiVfejEtS. 


My dagger is even now upon your bosom — do you not feel it ? 
At a word — a single suggestion of my thought — it performs 
its office, and for this night’s defeat I am half revenged. You 
may arrest my arm — you may procure your release — even 
more — you may escape from the bondage of that union with 
me for which your uncle stands pledged, if you please.” 

“Speak — say — how!” was the eager exclamation of the 
maiden when this last suggestion met her ears. 

“ Put me on the scent — say on what route have you sent this 
boy, that I may realize the revenge I so often dream of.” 

“ Never, never, as I hope to live. I would rather you should 
strike me dead on the spot.” 

“ Why, so I will,” he exclaimed furiously, and his arm rose 
and the weapon descended, but he arrested the stroke as it ap- 
proached her. 

“ No ! not yet. There will be time enough for this, and you 
will perhaps be more ready and resigned when I have got rid 
of this youth in whom you are so much interested. I need not 
disguise my purpose to you — you must have known it, when 
conspiring for its defeat; and now, Lucy, be assured, I shall 
not slumber in pursuit of him. I may be delayed, my revenge 
may be protracted, but I shall close with him at last. With 
holding the clue which you may unfold, can not serve him very 
greatly ; and having it in your hands, you may serve yourself 
and me. Take my offer — put me on his route, so that he shall 
not escape me, and be free henceforward from pursuit, or, as you 
phrase it, from persecution of mine.” 

“ You offer highly, very highly, Guy Rivers, and I should be 
tempted to anything, save this. But I have not taken this step 
to undo it. I shall give you no clue, no assistance which may 
lead to crime and to the murder of the innocent. Release my 
hand, sir, and suffer me to retire.” 

“ You have the means of safety and release in your own hands 
— a single condition complied with, and, so far as I am con- 
cerned, they are yours. Where is he gone — where secreted t 
Wliat is the route which you have advised him to take ? Speak, 
md to the point, Lucy Munro, for I may not longer be trifled 
with.” 

“ He is safe, and by this time, I hope, beyond your reach. 1 


TtiE OUTLAW AND HIS VICTIM. ^59 

tell ybti thus much, because I feel that it can not yiela you more 
satisfaction than it yields to me.” 

** It is in vain, woman, that you would trifle with and delay 
me ; he can not esca^»e me in the end. All these woods are 
familiar to me, in night as in day, as the apartment in which 
we stand ; and towards this boy I entertain a feeling which will 
endue me with an activity and energy as unshrinking in the 
pursuit as the appetite for revenge is keen which gives them 
birth and impulse. I hate him with a sleepless, an unforgiving 
hate, that can not be quieted. He has dishonored me in the 
presence of these men — he has been the instrument through 
which I bear this badge, this brand-stamp on my cheek — he 
has come between my passion and its object — nay, droop not 
— I have no reference now to you, though you, too, have been 
won by his insidious attractions, while he gives you no thought 
in return — he has done more than this, occasioned more than 
this, and wonder not that I had it in my heart at one moment 
to-night to put my dagger into your bosom, since through you 
it had been defrauded of its object. But why tremble — do you 
not tell me he is safe 

“ I do ! and for this reason I tremble. I tremble with joy, 
not fear. I rejoice that through my poor help he is safe. I did 
it all. I sought him — hear me, Guy Rivers, for in his safety I 
feel strong to speak — I sought him even in his chamber, and 
felt no shame — I led the way — I guided him through all the 
avenues of the house — when you ascended the stairs we stood 
over it in the closet which is at its head. We beheld your prog- 
ress — saw, and counted every step you took ; heard every word 
you uttered ; and more than once, when your fiend soul spoke 
through your lips, in horrible threatenings, my hand arrested, 
the weapon with which the youth whom you now seek would 
have sent you to your long account, with all your sins upon 
your head. I saved you from his blow ; not because you de- 
served to live, but because, at that moment, you were too little 
prepared to die.” 

It would be difficult to imagine — certainly impossible to de- 
scribe, the rage of Rivers, as, with an excited spirit, the young 
girl, still trembling, as she expressed it, from joy, not fear, 
avowed all the particulars of Colleton’s escape. She proceed 


GUY RIVEiig. 


260 

ed with much of the fervor and manner of one rotised into atl 
the inspiration of a holy defiance of danger 

“Wonder not, therefore, that I tremble— ^ my sotil is full of 
joy at his escape. I heed not the sneer and the sarcasm which 
is upon your lips and in your eyes. I went boldly and confi- 
dently even into the chamber of the youth — I aroused him from 
his slumbers — I defiied, at that moment of peril, what were far 
worse to me than your suspicions — I defied such as might have 
been his. I was conscious of no sin — no improper thought — 
and I called upon God to protect and to sanction me in what I 
had undertaken. He has done so, and I bless him for the 
sanction.” 

She sunk upon her knees as she spoke, and her lips mur- 
mured and parted as if in prayer, while the tears — tears of 
gladness — streamed warmly and abundantly from her eyes. 
The rage of the outlaw grew momently darker and less gov- 
ernable. The white foam collected about his mouth — while 
his hands, though still retaining their gripe upon hers, trembled 
almost as much as her own. He spoke in broken and and bitter 
words. 

“And may God curse you for it! You have dared much, 
Lucy Munro, this hour. You have bearded a worse fury than 
the tiger thirsting after blood. What madness prompts you td 
this folly ] You have heard me avow my utter, uncontrollable 
hatred of this man — my determination, if possible, to destroy 
him, and yet you interpose. You dare to save him in my defi- 
ance. You teach him our designs, and labor to thwart them 
yourself. Hear me, girl! you know me well-— you know I 
never threaten without execution. I can understand how it is 
that a spirit, feeling at this moment as does your own, should 
defy death. But, bethink you — is there nothing in your 
thought which is worse than death, from the terrors of which, 
tlie pure mind, however fortified by heroic resolution, must still 
shrink and tremble ? Beware, then, how you chafe me. Say 
where the youth has gone, and in this way retrieve, if you can, 
the error which taught you to connive at his escape.” 

“ I know not what you mean, and have no fears of anything 
you can do. On this point I feel secure, and bid you defiance. 
To think now, that, having chiefly effected the escape of th^ 


THE OUTLAW AND HIb VICTIM. 


•261 


youth, I would place him again within your power, argues a 
degree of stupidity in me that is wantonly insulting. I tell you 
he hay fled, by this time, beyond your reach. I say no more. 
It is enough that he is in safety ; before a word of mine puts 
him in danger. I’ll perish by your hands, or any hands.” 

‘Then shall you perish, fool!” cried the ruffian; and his 
hand, hurried by the ferocious impulse of his rage, was again 
uplifted, when, in her struggles at freedom, a new object met 
his sight in the chain and portrait which Ralph had flung about 
her neck, and which, now falling from her bosom, arrested his 
attention, and seemed to awaken some recognition in his mind. 
His hold relaxed upon her arm, and with eager haste he seized 
the portrait, tearing it away with a single wrench from the rich 
chain to which it was appended, and which now in broken frag- 
ments was strewed upon the floor. 

Lucy sprang towards him convulsively, and vainly endeav- 
ored at its recovery. Rivers broke the spring, and his eyes 
gazed with serpent-like fixedness upon the exquisitely-beauti- 
ful features which it developed. His whole appearance under- 
went a change. The sternness had departed from his face 
which now put on an air of abstraction and wandering, not 
usually a habit with it. He gazed long and fixedly upon the 
portrait, unheeding the efforts of the girl to obtain it, and mut- 
tering at frequent intervals detached sentences, having little 
dependence upon one another : — 

“Ay — it is she,” he exclaimed — “true to the life — bright, 
beautiful, young, innocent — and I — But let me not thinji !” 

Then turning to the maid — 

“ Fond fool — see you the object of adoration with him whom 
you so unprofitably adore. He loves hefty girl — she, whom I 
— but why should I tell it you? is it not enough that we have 
both loved and loved in vain ; and, in my revenge, you too shall 
enjoy yours.” 

“ I have nothing to revenge, Guy Rivers — nothing for you, 
above all others, to revenge. Give me the miniature ; I have 
it in trust, and it must not go out of my possession.” 

She clung to him as she spoke, fruitlessly endeavoring at the 
recovery of that which he studiously kept from her reach. 
He parried her efforts for a while with something of forbear- 


262 


GUY RIVERS. 


ance ; but ere long bis original temper returned, and be ex- 
claimed, with all the air of the demon : — 

“ Why will you tempt me, and why longer should I trifle ? 
You cannot have the picture — it belongs, or should belong, as 
well as its original, to me. My concern is now with the robber 
from whom you obtained it. Will you not say upon what 
route ho went? Will you not guide me — and, remember well 
— there are some terrors greater to your mind than any threat 
of death. Declare, for the last time — what road he took.” 

The maiden was still, and showed no sign of reply. Her 
eye wandered — her spirit was in prayer. She was alone with 
a ruffian, irresponsible and reckless, and she had many fears. 

“Will you not speak?” he cried — “then you must hear. 
Disclose the fact, Lucy — say, what is the road, or what the 
course you have directed for this youth’s escape, or — mark me ! 
I have you in my power — my fullest power — with nothing to 
restrain my passion or my power, and — ” 

She struggled desperately to release herself from his grasp, 
but he renewed it with all his sinewy strength, enforcing, with 
a vicelike gripe, the consciousness, in her mind, of the futility 
of all her physical efforts. 

“ Do you not hear !” he said. “ Do you comprehend me.” 

“ Do your worst I” she cried. “ Kill me ! I defy your power 
and your malice !” 

“Ha! but do you defy my passions. Hark ye, if ye fear 
not death, there is something worse than death to so romantic a 
damsel, which shall teach ye fear. Obey me, girl — report the 
route taken by this fugitive, or by all that is black in hell or 
bright in heaven, I — ” 

And with a whisper, he hissed the concluding and cruci 
threat in the ears of the shuddering and shrinking girl. With a, 
husky horror in her voice, she cried out : — 

“ You dare not ! monster as you are, you dare not !” ther 
shrieking, at the full height of her voice — “ Save me, uncle 1 
save me 1 save me I” 

“ Save you ! It is he that dooms you ! He has given you 
up to any fate that I shall decree I” 

“ Liar ! away ! I defy you. You dare not, ruffian ! Your 
foul threat is but meant to frighten me.”’ 


THE OUTLAW AND HIS VICTIM. 


•263 


The creeping terrors of her voice, as she spoke, contradicted 
the tenor of her speech. Her fears — quite as extreme as he 
sought to make them — were fully evinced in her trembling 
accents. 

“Frighten you!” answered the ruffian. “Frighten you! 
why, not so difficult a matter either ! But it is as easy to do, 
as to threaten — to make you feel as to make you fear — and 
why not ? why should you not become the thing at once for 
which you have been long destined? Once certainly mine, 
Lucy Munro, you will abandon the silly notion that you can be 
anything to Ralph Colleton ! Come ! — ” 

Her shrieks answered him. He clapped his handkerchief 
upon her mouth* 

“ Uncle ! uncle ! save me !” 

She was half stifled — she felt breath and strength failing. 
Her brutal assailant was hauling her away, with a force to 
which she could no longer oppose resistance ; and with a single 
half-ejaculated prajer — “Oh, God! be merciful!” she sunk 
senselessly at his feet, even as a falling corse. 


264 


GUY IUVK«{5. 


CHAPTER XXI. 

“THOU SHALT DO NO MURDER I” 

Even at this moment, Munro entered the apartment. He 
came not a moment too soon. Rivers had abused his oppor- 
tunity thus far ; and it is not to be doubted that he would have 
forborne none of the advantages which his brute strength 
afforded him over the feeble innocent, were it not for the inter- 
position of the uncle. He had lied, when he had asserted to 
the girl the sanction of the uncle for his threatened crime. 
Munro was willing that his niece should become the wife of the 
outlaw, and barely willing to consent even to this ; but for any- 
thing less than this — base as he was — he would sooner have 
braved every issue with the ruffian, and perished himself in 
defence of the girl’s virtue. He had his pride of family, 
strange to say, though nursed and nestled in a bosom which 
could boast no other virtue. 

The moment he saw the condition of Lucy, with the grasp 
of Rivers still upon her, he tore her away with the strength of 
a giant. 

“ What have you been doing, Guy ?’* 

His keen and suspicious glance of eye conveyed the question 
more significantly. 

“ Nothing ! she is a fool only 

“And you have been a brute! Beware! I tell you, Guy 
Rivers, if you but ruffle the hair of this child in violence, I 
will knife you, as soon as I would my worst enemy.” 

“ Pshaw ! I only threatened her to make her confess where 
she had sent Colleton or hidden him.” 

“ Ay, but there are some threats, Guy, that call for throat- 
cutting. Look to it. We know each other; and you know 
that, though I’m willing you should many Lucy, I’ll not stand 


fflOtJ SHALT DO NO MtJRDEtl. 266 

by and see you harm her ; and, with my permission yon lay no 
hands on her, until you are married.” 

“Very well!” answered the ruffian sullenly, and turning 
away, “ see that you get the priest soon ready. I’ll wait upon 
neither man nor woman over long ! You sha’n’t trifle with me 
much longer.” 

To this speech Munro made no answer. He devoted himself 
to his still insensible niece, whom he raised carefully from the 
floor, and laid her upon a rude settee that stood in the apart- 
ment. She meanwhile remained unconscious of his care, which 
was limited to fanning her face and sprinkling water upon it. 

“Why not carry her to her chamber — put her in bed, and 
let us be ofiT’ said Rivers. 

“Wait awhile 1” was the answer. 

The girl had evidently received a severe shock. Munro 
shook his head, and looked at Rivers angrily. 

“ See to it, Guy, if any harm comes to her.” 

“ Pshaw !” said the other, “ she is recovering now.” 

He was right. The eyes of the sufferer unclosed, but they 
were vacant — they lacked all intelligence. Munro pulled a flask 
of spirits from his pocket, and poured some into her lips. They 
were livid, and her cheeks of ashy paleness. 

.“ She recovers — see !” 

The teeth opened and shut together again with a sudden 
spasmodic energy. The eyes began to receive light. Her 
breathing increased. 

“ She will do now,” muttered Munro. “ She will recover 
directly. Get yourself ready, Guy, and prepare to mount, 
while I see that she is put to bed. It’s now a necessity that 
we should push this stranger to the wall, and silence him alto- 
gether. I don’t oppose you now, seeing that we’ve got to do it.” 

“Ay,” quoth Rivers, somewhat abstractedly — for he was a 
person of changing and capricious moods — “ ay 1 ay ! it has to 
be done ! Well! we will do it ! — as for her !” 

Here he drew nigh and grasped the hand of the only half- 
conscious damsel, and stared earnestly in her face. Her eyes 
opened largely and wildly upon him, then closed again; a 
shudder passed over her form, and her hand was convulsively 
withdrawn from his grasp. 


12 


266 


GUY RIVEftS. 


“ Come, come, let her alone, and be off,” said Munro. “ As 
long as you are here, she’ll he in a fit ! See to the horses. 
There’s no use to wait. You little know Lucy Munro if you 
reckon to get anything out of her. You may strike till dooms- 
day at her bosom, but, where she’s fixed in principle, she’ll per- 
ish before she yields. Nothing can move her when she’s re- 
solved. In that she’s the very likeness of her father, who was 
like a rock when he had sworn a thing.” 

“ Ha ! but the rock may be split, and the woman’s will must 
be made to yield to a superior. I could SDon — ” 

He took her hand once more in his iron grasp. 

“ Let her go, Guy !” said Munro sternly. “ She shall have 
no rough usage while I’m standing by. Remember that ! It’s 
true, she’s meddled in matters that didn’t concern her, but there 
is an excuse. It was womanlike to do so, and I can’t blame 
her. She’s a true woman, Guy — all heart and soul — as noble 
a young thing as ever broke the world’s bread — too noble to 
live with such as we, Guy ; and I only wish I had so much man’s 
strength as to be worthy of living with such as she.” 

“ A plague on her nobility ! It will cut all our throkts, or 
halter us ; and your methodistical jargon only encourages her. 
Noble or not, she has been cunning enough to listen to our pri- 
vate conversation ; has found out all our designs ; has blabbed 
everything to this young fellow, and made him master of our 
lives. Yes ! would you believe it of her nobleness and deli- 
cacy, that she has this night visited him in his very chamber 

“ What !” 

“ Yes I indeed ! and she avows it boldly.” 

“ Ah ! if she avows it, there’s no harm 1” 

“ What ! no harm ?” 

“ I mean to her. She’s had no bad purpose in going to his 
chamber. I see it all !” 

“ Well, and is it not quite enough to drive a man mad, to 
think that the best designs of a man are to be thwarted, and 
his neck put in danger, by the meddling of a thing like this 1 
She has blabbed all our secrets — nay, made him listen to them 
— for, even while we ascended the stairs to his chamber, they 
were concealed in the closet above the stairway, watched all 
our movements, and heard every word we had to say.” 


THOU SHALT DO NO MURDER. 267 

*‘And you would be talking,” retorted the landloid. The 
3ther glared at him ferociously, but proceeded : — 

“I heard the sound — their breathing — I told you at the 
time that I heard something stirring in the closet. But you 
had your answer. For an experienced man, Munro, you arc 
duller than an owl by daylight.” 

“ I’m afraid so,” answered the other coolly. “ But it’s too 
late now for talk. We must be off and active, if we would bo 
doing anything. I’ve been out to the stable, and find that the 
young fellow has taken off his horse. He has been cool enough 
about it, for saddle and bridle are both gone. He’s had time 
enough to gear up in proper style, while you were so eloquent 
along the stairs. I reckon there was something to scare him 
off at last, however, for here’s his dirk — I suppose it’s his — 
which I found at the stable-door. He must have dropped it 
when about to mount.” 

“ ’Tis his !” said Rivers, seizing and examining it. “ It is the 
weapon he drew on me at the diggings.” 

“ He has the start of us — ” 

“ But knows nothing of the woods. It is not too late. Let 
us be off. Lucy is recovering, and you can now leave her in 
safety. She will find the way to her chamber — or to sofue 
chamber. It seems that she has no scruples in going to any.” 

“ Stop that, Guy ! Don’t slander the girl.” 

“ Pooh ! are you going to set up for a sentimentalist ?” 

“ No ; but if you can’t learn to stop talking, I shall set you 
down as a fool ! For a man of action, you use more of an un- 
necessary tongue than any living man I ever met. For God’s 
sake, sink the lawyer when you’re out of court ! It will be 
high time to brush up for a speech when you are in the dock, 
and pleading with the halter dangling in your eyes. Oh, don’t 
glare upon me ! He who flings about his arrows by the hand- 
ful mustn’t be angry if some of them are flung back.” 

“Are you ready ?” 

“Ay, ready! — She’s opening her eyes. We can leave her 
m)w. — What’s the course?” 

“We can determine in the open air. He will probably go 
west, and will take one or other of the two traces at the fork, 
and his hoofs will soon tell us which. Our horses are refreshed 


268 


viUY RIVERS. 


by lliis, and are in readiness. You have pistcls: see to the 
flints and priming. There must he no scruples now. The mat- 
ter has gone quite too far for quiet, and though the affair was 
all mine at first, it is now as perfectly yours.” 

As Rivers spoke, Munro drew forth his pistols and looked 
carefully at the priming. The sharp click of the springing 
steel, as the pan was thrown open, now fully aroused Lucy to 
that consciousness which had been only partial in the greater 
part of this dialogue. Springmg to her feet with an eagerness 
and energy that was quite astonishing after her late prostration, 
she rushed forward to her uncle, and looked appealingly into 
his face, though she did not speak, while her hand grasped te- 
naciously his arm. 

“ What means the girl V' exclaimed Munro, now apprehen- 
sive of some mental derangement. She spoke, with a deep 
emphasis, but a single sentence : — 

“ It is written — thou shalt do no murder !” 

The solemn tone — the sudden, the almost fierce action — the 
peculiar abruptness of the apostrophe — the whitely-robed, the 
almost spiritual elevation of figure — all so dramatic — combined 
necessarily to startle and surprise ; and, for a few moments, no 
answer was returned to the unlooked-for speech. But the effect 
could not be permanent upon minds made familiar with the 
thousand forms of human and strong energies. Munro, after a 
brief pause, replied — 

“ Who speaks of murder, girl ? Why this wild, this uncalled- 
for exhortation?” 

“ Not wild, not uncalled-for, uncle, but most necessary. Where- 
fore would you pursue the youth, arms in your hands, hatred in 
your heart, and horrible threatenings upon your lips ? Why put 
yourself into the hands of this fierce monster, as the sharp in- 
strument to do his vengeance and gratify his savage malignity 
against the young and the gentle ? If you would do no murder, 
not so he. He will do it — he will make you do it, but he will 
have it done. Approach me not — approach me not — let me 
perish, rather ! 0 God— my tincle, lei him come not near me, 

if you would hot see me die upon the spot !” she exclaimed, in 
the mosi terrified manner, and with a shuddering horror, as 
Rivers, toward the conclusion of lief speech, had approached 


THOU SHALT DO NO MURDER. 


269 


lier with the view to an answer. To her uncle she again ad 
dressed herself, with an energy which gave additional emphasis 
to her language : — 

“Uncle— you are my father now — you will not forget the 
dying prayer of a brother ! My prayer is his. Keep that matt 
from me — let me not see him — let him come not near me with 
his polluted and polluting breath ! You know not what he is 
— you know him but as a stabber — as a hater — as a thief! 
But were my knowledge yours — could I utter in your ears the 
foul language, the fiend-thrcatenings which his accursed lips 
uttered in mine! — but no — save me from him is all I ask — 
protect the poor orphan — the feeble, the trampled child of 
your brother ! Keep me from the presence of that bad man !” 

As she spoke, she sank at the feet of the person she ad- 
dressed, her hands were clasped about his knees, and she lay 
there shuddering and shrinking, until he lifted her up in his 
arms. Somewhat softened by his kindness of manner, the pres- 
sure upon her brain of that agony was immediately relieved, 
and a succession of tears and sobs marked the diminished influ- 
ence of her terrors. But, as Rivers attempted something in 
reply, she started — 

“Let me go — let me not hear him speak! His breath is 
pollution — his words are full of foul threats and dreadful 
thoughts. If you knew all that I know — if you feared what I 
fear, uncle — you would nigh slay him on the spot.” 

This mental suffering of his niece was not without its influ- 
ence upon her uncle, who, as we have said before, had a certain 
kind and degree of pride — pride of character we may almost 
call it — not inconsistent with pursuits and a condition of life 
wild and wicked even as his. His eye sternly settled upon 
tliat of his companion, as, without a word, he bore the almost 
lifeless girl into the chamber of his wife, who, ai-oused by the 
clamor, had now and then looked forth upon the scene, but was 
too much the creature of timidity to venture entirely amid the 
disputants. Placing her under the charge of the old lady, 
Munro uttered a few consolatory words in Lucy's ear, but she 
heard him not. Her thoughts evidently wandered to other than 
selfish considerations at that moment, and, as he left the cham- 
ber, she raised her finger impressively; — 


270 


guy rivers. 


“ Do no murder, uncle ! let him not persuade you into crime ; 
break off from a league which compels you to brook a foul insult 
to those you are bound in duty to protect.” 

“Would I could !” was his muttered sentence as he left the 
chamber. He felt the justice of the counsel, but wore the be- 
wildered expression of countenance of one conscious of what is 
right, but wanting courage for its adoption. 

“ She has told you no foolish story of me ?” was the somewhat 
anxious speech of Rivers upon the reappearance of the land- 
lord. 

“ She has said nothing in plain words, Guy Rivers — but yet 
quite enough to make me doubt whether you, and not this boy 
we pursue, should not have my weapon in your throat. But 
beware ! The honor of that child of Edgar Munro is to me 
what would have been my own ; and let me find that you have 
gone a tittle beyond the permitted point, in speech or action, 
and we cut asunder. I shall then make as little bones of put- 
ting a bullet through your ribs as into those of the wild bullock 
of the hills. I am what I am : my hope is that she may always 
be the pure creature which she now is, if it were only that she 
might pray for me.” 

“ She has mistaken me, Munro — ” 

“ Say no more, Guy. She has not much mistaken you, or I 
have. Let us speak no more on this subject ; you know my 
mind, and will be advised. — Let us now be off. The horses 
are in readiness, and waiting, and a good spur will bring us up 
with the game. The youth, you say, has money about him, a 
gold watch, and — ” 

The more savage ruffian grinned as he listened to these words 
They betrayed the meaner motives of action in the case of the 
companion, who could acknowledge the argument of cupidity, 
while insensible to that of revenge. 

“Ay ! enough to pay you for your share in the performance 
Do your part well, and you shall have all that he carries — 
gold, watch, trinkets, horse, everything. I shall be quite con 
tent to take — his life! Are you satisfied? Are there any 
scruples now ?” 

“No! none! I have no scruples! But to cut a throat, or 
blow out a man’s liver with a brace of bullets, is a work that 


tfiotl SHALT DO NO MURDEIL 


271 


sKould be well paid for. The performance is by no means so 
agreeable that one should seek to do it for nothing.” 

Guy Rivers fancied himself a nobler animal than his compan- 
ion, as he felt that he needed not the mercenary motive for the 
performance of the murderous action. 

They were mounted, the horses being ready for them in the 
rear of the building. 

“Round the hollow. We’ll skirt the village, and not go 
through it,” said Munro. “We ^ay gain something on the 
route to the fork of the roads by taking the blind track by the 
red hill.” 

“As you will. Go ahead !” 

A few more words sufficed to arrange the route, and regulate 
their pursuit, and a few moments sufficed to send them off in 
full speed over the stony road, both with a common and desper- 
ate purpose, but each moved by arguments and a passion of his 
own. 

In her lonely chamber, Lucy Munro, now recovered to acutest 
consciousness, heard the tread of their departing hoofs; and, 
Tasping her .hands, she sank upon her knees, yielding up her 
whole soul to silent prayer. The poor girl never slept that 
night. 


2/2 


GUY RIVERS. 


CHAPTER XXII. 

THE BLOODY DEED. 

Let us leave the outlaws to their progress for a brief space, 
while we gather up and pursue for awhile some other clues of 
our story. 

We have witnessed the separation of Mark Forrester from 
his sweetheart, at the place of trysting. The poor fellow had 
recovered some of his confidence in himself and fortune, and was 
now prepared to* go forth with a new sentiment of hope within 
liis bosom. The sting was in a degree taken from his con- 
science — his elastic and sanguine temperament contributed to 
this — and with renewed impulses to adventure, and with new 
anticipations of the happiness that we all dream to find in life ; 
the erring, but really honest fellow, rode fearlessly through the 
dim forests, without needing more auspicious lights than those 
of the kindling moon and stars. The favor of old Allen, the 
continued love of Kate, the encouragements of young Colleton, 
his own feeling of the absence of any malice in his heart, even 
while committing his crime, and the farther fact that he was 
well-mounted, and speeding from the region where punishment 
threatened — all these were influences which conspired to lessen, 
in his mind, the griefs of his present privation, and the lonely 
emotions which naturally promised to accompany him in his 
solitary progress. 

His course lay for the great Southwest — the unopened forests, 
and mighty waters of the Mississippi valley. Here, he was to 
begin a new life. Unknown, he would shake ofP the fears which 
his crime necessarily inspired. Respited from death and dan- 
ger, he would atone for it by penitence and honest works. Kate 
Allen should be his solace, and there would be young and lovely 


THE BLOODY DEED. 273 

children smiling around his board. Such were the natural 
dreams of the young and sanguine exile. 

“ But who shall ride from his destiny saith the proverb. 
The wing of the bird is no security against the shaft of the 
fowler, and the helmet and the shield keep not away the draught 
that is poisoned. He who wears the greaves, the gorget, and 
the coat-of-mail, holds defiance to the storm of battle ; but he 
drinks and dies in the hall of banqueting. What matters it, 
too, though the eagle soars and screams among the clouds, half- 
way up to heaven — flaunting his proud pinions, and glaring 
with audacious glance in the very eye of the sun — death waits 
for him in the quiet of his own eyry, nestling with his brood. 
These are the goodly texts of the Arabian sage, in whose 
garden-tree, so much was he the beloved of heaven, the birds 
came and nightly sang for him those solemn truths — those 
lessons of a perfect wisdom — which none but the favored of 
the Deity are ever permitted to hear. They will find a suffi- 
cient commentary in the fortune of the rider whom we have 
just beheld setting out from his parting with his mistress, on his 
way of new adventure — his heart comparatively light, and 
his spirit made buoyant with the throng of pleasant fancies 
which continually gathered in his thought. 

The interview between Forrester and his mistress had been 
somewhat protracted, and his route from her residence to the 
road in which we find him, being somewhat circuitous, the night 
had waned considerably ere he had made much progress. He 
now rode carelessly, as one who mused — his horse, not urged 
by its rider, became somewhat careful of his vigor, and his 
gait was moderated much from that which had marked his out- 
set. He had entered upon the trace through a thick wood, 
tvhen the sound of other hoofs came down upon the wind ; not 
to his ears, for, swallowed up in his own meditations, his senses 
had lost much of their wonted acuteness. He had not been 
long gone from the point of the road in which we found him, 
when his place upon the same route was supplied by the pur- 
suing party, Rivers and Munro. They were both admirably 
mounted, and seemed little to regard,- in their manner of using 
them, the value of the good beasts which they bestrode — 
driviiig them as they did, resolutely oVer fallen trees and jut- 


274 


GUY RIVERS. 


ting rocks, tlieir sides already daslied with foam, and the flanks 
bloody with the repeated application of the rowel. It was 
soon evident that farther pursuit at such a rate would be impos- 
sible ; and Munro, as well for the protection of the horses, as 
with a knowledge of this necessity, insisted upon a more mod- 
erated and measured pace. 

Much against his own will, Rivers assented, though his im- 
patience frequent found utterance in words querulously sarcastic. 
The love of gain was a besetting sin of the landlord, and it was 
by this passion that his accomplice found it easy, on most occa- 
sions, to defeat the suggestions of his better judgment. The 
tauntings of the former, therefore, were particularly bestowed 
upon this feature in his character, as he found himself compelled 
to yield to the requisition of the latter, with whom the value 
of the horses was no small consideration. 

“ Well, well,” said Rivers, “ if you say so, it must be so ; 
though I am sure, if we push briskly ahead, we shall find our 
bargain in it. You too will find the horse of the youth, upon 
which you had long since set your eyes and heart, a full equiva- 
lent, even if we entirely ruin the miserable beasts we ride.” 

“ The horse you ride is no miserable beast,” retorted the 
landlord, who had some of the pride of a southron in this particu- 
lar, and seemed solicitous for the honor of his stud — “ you have 
jaded him by your furious gait, and seem entirely insensible to 
the fact that our progress for the last half hour, continued much 
longer, would knock up any animal. I’m not so sure, too, Guy, 
that we shall find the youngster, or that we shall be able to get 
our own bargain out of him when found. He’s a tough colt, I 
take it, and will show fight unless you surprise him.” 

“ Stay — hear you nothing now, as the wind sets up from be- 
low ? Was not that the tramping of a horse ?” 

They drew up cautiously as the inquiry was put by Rivers, 
and pausing for a few minutes, listened attentively. Munro 
dismounted, and laying his ear to the ground, endeavored to 
detect and distinguish the distant sounds, which, in that way, 
may be heard with far gi’eater readiness ; but he arose without 
being satisfied. \ 

** You beat iiothlngl” 

“ a sou ul but that which we make ourselves. Your ears 


THE BLOODY DEED. 


276 


lo-iiiglit are marvellous quick, but they catch nothing. This is 
the third time to-night you have fancied sounds, and heard 
what I could not j and I claim to have senses in quite as high 
perfection as your own.” 

“ And without doubt you have ; but, know you not, Munro, 
that wherever the passions are concerned, the senses become so 
much more acute ; and, indeed, are so many sentinels and spies 
— scouring about perpetually, and with this advantage over all 
other sentinels, that they then never slumber. So, whether one 
hate or love, the ear and the eye take heed of all that is going 
on — they minister to the prevailing passion, and seem, in their 
own exercise, to acquire some of the motive and impulse which 
belong to it.” 

“ I believe this in most respects to be the case. I have ob- 
served it on more than one occasion myself, and in my own 
person. But, Guy, in all that you have said, and all that I 
have seen, I do not yet understand why it is that you entertain 
such a mortal antipathy to this young man, more than to many 
others who have at* times crossed your path. I now understand 
the necessity for putting him out of the way ; but this is another 
matter. Before we thought it possible that he could injure us, 
you had the same violent hatred, and would have destroyed 
him at the first glance. There is more in this, Guy, than you 
have been willing to let out ; and I look upon it as strange, to 
say nothing more, that I should be kept so much in the dark 
upon the subject.” 

Rivers smiled grimly at the inquiry, and replied at once, 
though with evident insincerity, — 

“Perhaps my desire to get rid of him, then, arose from a 
presentiment that we should have to do it in the end. You 
know I have a gift of foreseeing and foretelling.” 

“ This won’t do for me, Guy ; I know you too well to regard 
you as one likely to be influenced by notions of this nature — 
you must put me on some other scent.” 

“Why, so I would, Wat, if I were assured that I myself 
knew the precise impulse which sets me on this work. But the 
fact is, my hate to the boy springs from certain influences which 
may not be defined by name— -which grow out of those moral 
mysteries of our nature, for which we can scarcely account tp 


276 


• GUY RIVERS. 


ourselves j and, by tlie operation of which, we are led to the 
performance of things seemingly without any adequate cause or 
necessity. A few reflections might give you the full force of 
this. Why do some men shrink from a cat? There is an 
instance now in John .Bremer; a fellow, you know, who would 
make no more ado about exchanging rifle-shots with his enemy 
at twenty paces, than at taking dinner ; yet a black cat throws 
him into fits, from which for two days he never perfectly re- 
covers. Again — there are some persons to whom the perfume 
of flowers brings sickness, and the song of a bird sadness. 
How are we to account for all these things, unless we do so by 
a reference to the peculiar make of the man ? In this way you 
may understand why it is that I hate this boy, and would de- 
stroy him. He is my black cat, and his presence for ever 
throws me into fits.” 

“ I have heard of the things of which you speak, and have 
known some of them myself; but I never could believe that 
tlie nature of the person had been the occasion. I was always 
inclined to think that circumstances in childhood, of which the 
recollection is forgotten — such as great and sudden fright to 
the infant, or a blow which affected the brain, were the oper- 
ating influences. All these things, however, only affect the 
fancies — they beget fears and notions — never deep and abiding 
hatred — unquiet passion, and long-treasured malignity, such as 
I find in you on this occasion.” 

“ Upon this point, Munro, you may be correct. I do not 
mean to say that hatred and a desire to destroy are consequent 
to antipathies such as you describe; but still, something may 
be said in favor of such a notion. It appears to me but natural 
to seek the destruction of that which is odious or irksome to any 
of our senses. Why do you crush the crawling spider with youi 
heel ? You fear not its venom ; inspect it, and the mechanism 
of its make, the architecture of its own fabrication, are, to the 
full, as wonderful as anything within your comprehension ; but 
yet, without knowing why, with an impulse given you, as it 
would seem, from infancy, you seek its destruction with a per^ 
severing industry, which might lead one to suppose you had in 
view yoUr direst enemy.” 

“ This is all Very true ; and from infancy up we do this thing, 


tHE BLOODY DEED. 


27 ? 

bill the cause can not be in any loathsomeness which its pres- 
ence occasions in the mind, for we perceive the same boy de- 
stroying with measured torture? the gaudiest butterfly which his 
hat can encompass.” 

“ Non sequitur,^ said Rivers. 

“ What’s that ? some of your d d law gibberish, I suppose. 

If you want me to talk with you at all, Guy, you must speak in 
a language I understand.” 

“ Why, so I will, Wat. I only meant to say, in a phrase 
common to the law, and which your friend Pippin makes use 
of a dozen times a day, that it did not follow from what you 
said, that the causes which led to the death of the spider and 
the butterfly were the same. This we may know by the man- 
ner in which they are respectively destroyed. The boy, with 
much precaution and an aversion he does not seek to disguise 
in his attempts on the spider, employs his shoe or a stick for the 
purpose of slaughter. But, with the butterfly, the case is alto 
gether different. He first catches, and does not fear to hold it 
in his hand. He inspects it closely, and proceeds to analyze 
that which his young thought has already taught him is a beau 
tiful creation of the insect world. He strips it, wing by wing 
of its gaudy covering; and then, with a feeling of ineffable 
scorn, that so wealthy a noble should go unarmed and unpro- 
tected, he dashes him to the ground, and terminates his suffer- 
ings without further scruple. The spider, having a sting, he is 
compelled to fear, and consequently taught to respect. The 
feelings are all perfectly natural, however, which prompt his 
proceedings. The curiosity is common and innate which im- 
pels him to the inspection of the insect; and that feeling is 
equally a natural impulse which prompts him to the death of 
the spider without hesitation. So with me — it is enough that 
I hate this boy, though possessed of numberless attractions of 
mind and person. Shall I do him the kindness to inquire 
whether there be reason for the mood which prompts me to 
destroy him ?” 

“ You were always too much for me, Guy, at this sort of ar- 
gument, and you talk the matter over ingeniously enough, I 
grant ; but still I am not satisfied, that a mere antipathy, with- 
out show of n ason, originally induced your dislike to this 


auY rivehs. 


m. 

young man. When you first sought to do him up, you 
were conscious of this, and gave, as a reason for the desire, 
the cut upon your face, which so much disfigured your loveli- 
ness.” 

Rivers did not appear very much to relish or regard this 
speech, which had something of satire in it ; but he was wise 
enough to restrain his feelings, as, reverting back to their 
original topic, he spoke in the following manner 

“ You are unusually earnest after reasons and motives for ac- 
tion, to-night : is it not strange, Munro, that it has never oc- 
casioned surprise in your mind, that one like myself, so far 
superior in numerous respects to the men I have consented to 
lead and herd with, should have made such my profession 

“ Not at all,” was the immediate and ready response of his 
companion. “ Not at all. This was no mystery to me, for I 
very well knew that you had no choice, no alternative. What 
else could you have done! Outlawed and under sentence, I 
knew that you could never return, in any safety or security, 
whatever might be your disguise, to the society which had 
driven you out— and I’m sure that your chance would be but 
a bad one were you to seek a return to the old practice at 
Gwinnett courthouse. Any attempt there to argue a fellow out 
of the halter would be only to argue yourself into it.” 

“ Pshaw, Munro, that is the case now — that is the necessity 
and difficulty of to-day. But where, and what was the neces- 
sity, think you, when, in the midst of good practice at Gwinnett 
bar, where I ruled without competitor, riding roughshod over 
bench, bar, and jury, dreaded alike by all, I threw myself into 
the ranks of these men, and put on their habits ] I speak not 
now in praise of myself, more than the facts, as you yourself 
know them, will sufficiently warrant. I am now above those 
idle vanities which would make me deceive myself as to my 
own mental merits ; but, that such was my standing there and 
then, I hold indisputable.” 

“ It is true. I sometimes look back and laugh at the manner 
in which you used to bully the old judge, and the gaping jury, 
and your own brother lawyers, while the foam would run 
through your clenched teeth and from your lips in very pas- 
sion; and tlien I wonder 3d, when you were doing so well, that 


THE BLOODY DEED. 279 

you ever gave up there, to undertake a business, the very first 
job in which put your neck in danger.” 

“ You may well wonder, Munro. I could not well explain 
the mystery to myself, were I to try ; and it is this which made 
the question and doubt which we set out to explain. To those 
who knew me well from the first, it is not matter of surprise 
that I should be for ever in excitements of one kind or another. 
From my childhood up, my temper was of a restless and un- 
quiet character — I was always a peevish, a fretful and discon- 
tented person. I looked with scorn and contempt upon the 
humdrum ways of those about me, and longed for perpetual 
change,* and wild and stirring incidents. My passions, always 
fretful and excitable, were never satisfied except when I was 
employed in some way which enabled me to feed and keep 
alive the irritation which was their and my very breath of life. 
With such a spirit, how could I be what men style and consider 
a good man ? What folly to expect it. Virtue is but a sleepy, 
in-door, domestic quality — inconsistent with enterprise or great 
activity. There are no drones so perfect in the world as the truly 
orthodox. Hence the usual superiority of a dissenting, over an 
established church. It is for this reason, too, and from this 
cause, that a great man is seldom, if ever, a good one. It is in- 
consistent with the very nature of things to expect it, unless it 
be from a co-operation of singular circumstances, whose return 
is with the comets. Vice, on the contrary, is endowed with 
strong passions — a feverish thirst after forbidden fruits and 
waters — a bird-nesting propensity, that carries it away from 
the haunts of the crowded city, into strange wilds and inter- 
minable forests. It lives upon adventure — it counts its years 
by incidents, and has no other mode of computing time or of 
enjoying life. This fact — and it is undeniable with respect to 
both the parties — will furnish a sufficient reason why the best 
heroes of the best poets are always great criminals. Were this 
not the case, from what would the interest be drawn? — where 
would be the incident, if all men, pursuing the quiet paths of 
non-interference with the rights, the lives, or the liberties of 
one another, spilt no blood, invaded no territory, robbed no 
lord of his lady, enslaved and made no captives in war ? A 
virtuous hero would be a useless personage both in play and 


280 


GtJlr mvERs. 


poem — and tlie spectator or reader would fall asleep over the 
utterance of stale apothegms. What writer of sense, for in- 
stance, would dream of bringing up George Washington to fig- 
ure in either of these forms before the world — and how, if he 
did so, would he prevent rt^ader or auditor from getting exces- 
sively tired, and perhaps disgusted, with one, whom all men 
are now agreed to regard as the hero of civilization ? Nor do 
I utter sentiments which are subjects either of doubt or dispm 
tation. I could put the question in such a form as would bring 
the million to agree with me. Look, for instance, at the execu- 
tion of a criminal. See the thousands that will assemble, day 
after day, after travelling miles for that single object, lo gape 
and gaze upon the last agonizing pangs and paroxsyms of a 
fellow-creature — not regarding for an instant the fatigue of 
their position, the press of the crowd, or the loss of a dinner — 
totally insusceptible, it would seem, of the several influences of 
heat and cold, wind and rain, which at any other time would 
drive them to their beds or firesides. The same motive which 
provokes this desire in the spectator, is the parent, to » certain 
extent, of the very crime which has led to the exhibition. It 
is the morbid appetite, which sometimes grows to madness — 
the creature of unregulated passions, ill-judged direction, and 
sometimes, even of the laws and usages of society itself, which 
is so much interested in the promotion of characteristics the 
very reverse. It may be that I have more of this perilous stuff 
about me than the generality of mankind ; but I am satisfied 
there are few of them, taught as I have been, and the prey of 
like influences, whose temper had been very different from 
mine. The early and operating circumstances under which I 
grew up, all tended to the .rank growth and encouragement of 
the more violent and vexing passions. I was the victim of a 
tyranny, which, in the end, made me too a tyrant. To feel, 
myself, and exercise the temper thus taught me, I had to ac- 
quire power in order to secure victims ; and all my aims in life, 
all m}^ desires, tended to this one pursuit. Indifferent to me, 
alike, the spider who could sting, or the harmless butterfly 
whose only offensiveness is in the folly of his wearing a glitter 
which he can not take care of. I was a merciless enemy, giv 


THE BLOODY DEED. 


281 


iiig uo quarter; and with an Ishmaelitish spirit, lifting my 
hand against all the tribes that were buzzing around me.” 

“ I believe you have spoken the truth, Guy, so far as your 
particular qualities of temper are concerned ; for, had I under- 
taken to have spoken for you in relation to this subject, I 
should probably have said, though not to the same degree, the 
same thing ; but the wonder with me is, how, with such feel- 
ings, }yu should have so long remained in quiet, and in some 
respects, perfectly harmless.” 

“ There is as little mystery in the one as in the other. You 
may judge that my sphere of action — speaking of action in a 
literal sense — was rather circumscribed at Gwinnett courthouse : 
but, the fact is, I was then but acquiring my education. I was, 
for the first time, studying rogues, and the study of rogues is 
not unaptly fitted to make one take up the business. J, at least, 
found it to have that effect. But, even at Gwinnett courthouse, 
learning as I did, and what I did, there was one passion, or 
perhaps a modified form of the ruling passion, which might have 
swallowed up all the rest had time been allowed it. I was 
young, and not free from vanity ; particularly as, for the first 
time, my ears had been won with praise and gentle flatteries. 
The possession of early, and afterward undisputed talents, ac- 
quired for me deference and respect ; and I was soon tempted 
to desire the applauses of the swinish multitude, and to feel a 
thirsting after public distinction. In short, I gi’ew ambitious. 
I soon became sick and tired of the applauses, the fame, of my 
own ten-mile horizon ; its origin seemed equivocal, its worth and 
quality questionable, at the best. My spirit grew troubled with 
a wholesale discontent, and roved in search of a wider field, a 
more elevated and extensive empire. But how could I, the 
petty lawyer of a county court, in the midst of a wilderness, 
appropriate time, find means and opportunities even for travel ? 
I was poor, and profits are few to a small lawyer, whose best 
cases are paid for by a bale of cotton or a negro, when both of 
them are down in the market. In vain, and repeatedly, did I 
struggle with circumstances that for ever foiled me in my de- 
sires ; until, in a rash and accursed hour, when chance, and you, 
and the devil, threw the opportunity for crime in my path 1 It 
did not escape me, and — but you know the rest.” 


282 


GUY RIVERS. 


“ I do, but would rather hear you tell it. When you speak 
thus, you put me in mind of some of the stump-speeches you 
used to make when you ran for the legislature.” 

“Ay, that was another, and not the least of the many re- 
verses which my ambition was doomed to meet witli. You 
knew the man who opposed me ; you know that a more shallow 
and insignificant fop and fool never yet dared to thrust his head 
into a deliberativfe assembly. But, he was rich, and I poor. 
He a potato, the growth of the soil ; I, though generally admit- 
ted a plant of more promise and pretension — I was an exotic ! 
He was a patrician — one of the small nobility — a growth, sut 
generis, of the place — ” 

“ Damn your law-phrases ! stop with that, if you please.” 

“Well, well! he was one of the great men; I was a poor 
plebeian, whose chief misfortune, at that time, consisted in my 
not having a father or a great-grandfather a better man than 
myself ! His money did the work, and I was bought and beat 
out of my election, which I considered certain. I then acquired 
knowledge of two things. I learned duly to estimate the value 
of the democratic principle, when I beheld the vile slaves, whose 
votes his nioney had commanded, laughing in scorn at the mis- 
erable creature they had themselves put over them. They felt 
not — not they — the double shame of their doings. They felt 
that he was King Log, but never felt how despicable they were 
as his subjects. This taught me, too, the value of money — its 
wonderful magic and mystery. In the mood occasioned by all 
these things, you found me, for the first time, and in a ready 
temper for any villany. You attempted to console me for my 
defeats, but I heard you not until you spoke of revenge. I 
was not then to learn how to be vindictive : I had always been 
so. I knew, by instinct, how to lap blood ; you only taught me 
how to scent it ! My first great crime proved my nature. Per- 
formed under your direction, though without your aid, it was 
wantonly cruel in its execution, since the prize desired might 
readily have been obtained without the life of its possessor. 
You, more merciful than myself, would have held me back, and 
arrested my stroke ; but that would have been taking from the 
repast its finish : the pleasure, for it was such to me in my con- 
dition of mind, would have been lost entiiely. tt may sound 


THE BLOODY DEED. 


•283 


Btraiigely even in yotir ears when I say so, but 1 could no more 
have kept my knife from that man’s throat than I could have 
taken wing for the heavens. He was a poor coward ; made no 
struggle, and begged most piteously for his life ; had the auda- 
city to talk of his great possessions, his rank in society, his wife 
and children. These were enjoyments all withheld from me ; 
these were the very things the want of which had made me 
what I was — what I am — and furiously I struck my weapon 
into his mouth, silencing his insulting speech. Should such a 
mean spirit as his have joys which were denied to me? I 
spurned his quivering carcass with my foot. At that moment 
I felt myself ; I had something to live for. I knew my appe- 
tite, and felt that it was native. I had acquired a knowledge 
of a new luxury, and ceased to wonder at the crimes of a Nero 
and a Caligula. Think you, Munro, that the thousands who 
assemble at the execution of a criminal trouble themselves to in- 
quire into the merits of his case — into the justice of his death 
and punishment ? Ask they whether he is the victim of justice 
or of tyranny ? No ! they go to see a show — they love blood, 
and in this way have the enjoyment furnished to their hands, 
without the risk which must follow the shedding of it for them- 
selves.” 

“ There is one thing, Guy, upon which I never thought to 
ask you. What became of that beautiful young girl from Car- 
olina, on a visit to the village, when you lost your election ? 
You were then cavorting about her in great style, and I could 
see that you were well nigh as much mad after her as upon the 
loss of the seat.” 

Rivers started at the inquiry in astonishment. He had never 
fancied that, in such matters, Munro had been so observant, and 
for a few moments gave no reply. He evidently winced be- 
neath the inquiry; hut he soon recovered himself, however — 
for, though at times exhibiting the passions of a demoniac, he 
was too much of a proficient not to he able, in the end, to com- 
mand the coolness of the villain. 

“ I had thought to have said nothing on this subject. Munro, 
but there are few things which escape your observation. In 
replying to you on this point, you will now have all the mys- 
tery explained of my rancorous pursuit of this boy. That girl 


284 


GUY RiVEltS. 


— then a mere girl — refused me, as perhaps you know; and 
when, heated with wine and irritated with rejection, I pressed 
the point rather too warmly, she treated me with contempt and 
withdrew from the apartment. This youth is the favored, the 
successful rival. Look upon this picture, Walter — now, while 
the moon streams .hrough the branches upon it — and wonder 
not that it maddened, and still maddens me, to think that, for 
his smooth face and aristocratic airs of superiority, I was to be 
sacrificed and despised. She was probably a year younger than 
himself ; but I saw at the time, though both of them appeared 
unconscious of the fact, that she loved him then. What with 
her rejection and scorn, coming at the same time with my elec- 
tion defeat, I am what I am. These defeats were wormwood 
to my soul ; and, if I am criminal, the parties concerned in them 
have been the cause of the crime.” 

“A very consoling argument, if you could only prove it !” 

“Very likely — you are not alone. The million would say 
with yourself. But hear the case as I put it, and not as it is 
put by the majority. Providence endowed me with a certain 
superiority of mind over my fellows. I had capacities which 
they had not — talents to which they did not aspire, and the 
possession of which they readily conceded to me. These tal- 
ents fitted me for certain stations in society, to which, as I had 
the talents pre-eminently for such stations, the inference is fair 
that Providence intended me for some such stations. But I was 
denied my place. Society, guilty of favoritism and prejudice, 
gave to others,' not so well fitted as myself for its purposes or 
necessities, the station in all particulars designed for me. I 
was denied my birthright, and rebelled. Can society com- 
plain, when prostituting herself and depriving me of my rights, 
that I resisted her usurpation and denied her authority ? Shall 
she, doing wrong herself in the first instance, undertake to pun- 
ish ? Surely not. My rights were admitted — my superior ca- 
pacity ; but the people were rotten to the core ; they had not 
even the virtue of truth to themselves. They made their own 
governors of the vilest and the worst. They willingly became 
slaves, and are punished in more ways than one. They first 
create the tyrants — for tyrants are the creatures of the people 
they sway, and never make themselves ; they next drive into 


THE BLOODY DEED. 


286 


banishment their more legitimate rulers ; and the consequence, 
in the third place, is, that they make enemies of those whom 
they exile. Such is the case with me, and such — but hark! 
That surely is the tread of a horse. Do you hear it ? there is 
no mistake now — ” and as he spoke, the measured trampings 
were heard resounding at some distance, seemingly in advance 
of them. 

“We must now use the spur, Munro; your horses have had 
indulgence enough for the last hour, and we may tax them a 
little now.” 

“ Well, push on as you please ; but do you know anything of 
this route, and what course will you pursue in doing him up 

“ Leave all that to me. As for the route, it is an old acquaint- 
ance ; and the blaze on this tree reminds me that we can here 
have a short cut which will carry us at a good sweep round this 
hill, bringing us upon the main trace about two miles farther 
down. We must take this course, and spur on, that we may 
get ahead of him, and be quietly stationed when he comes. 
We shall gain it, I am confident, before our man, who seems to 
be taking it easily. He will have three miles at the least to 
go, and over a road that will keep him in a walk half the way. 
We shall be there in time.” 

They reached the point proposed in due season. Their vic- 
tim had not yet made his appearance, and they had sufficient 
time for all their arrangements. The place was one well calcu- 
lated for the successful accomplishment of a deed of darkness. 
The road at the foot of the hill narrowed into a path scarcely 
wide enough for the passage of a single horseman. The shrub- 
bery and copse on either siue overhung it, and in many places 
were so thickly interwoven, that when, as at intervals of the 
nighl , the moon shone out among the thick and broken clouds 
which hung upon and mostly obscured her course, her scattered 
rays scarcely penetrated the dense enclosure. 

At length the horseman approached, and in silence. De- • 
scending the hill, his motion was slow and tedious. He entered 
the fatal avenue ; and, when in the midst of it, Eivers started 
from the side of his comrade, and, advancing under the shelter 
of a tree, awaited his progress. He came — no word was spo- 
ken — a single stroke was given, and the horseman, throwing 


286 


GUY RIVERS. 


np liis hands, grasped the limb which projected over, while his 
horse passed from under him. He held on for a moment to the 
branch, while a groan of deepest agony broke from his lips, 
when he fell supine to the ground. At that moment, the moon 
shone forth unimpeded and unobscured by a single cloud. The 
person of the wounded man was fully apparent to the sight. 
He struggled, but spoke not '; and the hand of Hivers was again 
uplifted, when Munro rushed forward. 

“Stay — away, Guy! — we are mistaken — this is not our 
man 1” 

The victim heard the words, and, with something like an 
effort at a laugh, though seemingly in great agony, exclaim- 
ed — 

“Ah, Munro, is that you ? — I am so glad ! but I’m afraid you 
come too late. This is a cruel blow; and — for what? What 
have I done to you, that — oh 1 — ’’ 

The tones of the voice — the person of the suffering man — 
were now readily distinguishable. 

“ Good God ! Hivers, what is to be the end of all this blun- 
dering ?” 

“ Who would have thought to find him here ?” was the fero- 
cious answer ; the disappointed malice of the speaker prompting 
him to the bitterest feelings against the unintended victim — 
“ why was he in the way % he is always in the way 

“ I am afraid you’ve done for him.” 

“We must be sure of it.” 

“ Great God I would you kill him ?” 

“ Why not % It must be done now.” 

The wounded man beheld the action of the speaker, and 
heard the discussion. He gasped out a prayer for life : — 

“ Spare me, Guy ! Save me, Wat, if you have a man’s heart 
in your bosom. Save me ! spare me 1 I would live I I — oh, 
spare me !” 

And the dying man threw up his hands feebly, in order to 
avert the blow ; but it was in vain. Munro would have inter- 
posed, but, this time, the murderer was too quick for him, if not 
too strong. With a sudden rush he flung his associate asido, 
stooped down, and smote — smote fatally. 

“ Kate I ah 1 — 0 God, have ipercy |” 


THE BLOODY DEED. 


287 


The wretched and unsuspecting victim fell back upon the 
earth with these last words — dead — sent to his dread account, 
with all his sins upon his head ! And what a dream of simple 
happiness in two fond, feeble hearts, was thus cruelly and ter 
ribly dispersed for ever ! 


288 


GUY RIVBES, 


CHAPTER XXIII. 

WHAT FOLLOWED THE MURDER 

There was a dreadful pause, after the commission of the deed, 
in which no word was spoken by either of the parties. The 
murderer, meanwhile, with the utmost composure wiped his 
bloody knife in the coat of the man whom he had slain. Bold- 
ly and coolly then, he broke the silence which was certainly a 
painful one to Mujiro if not to himself. 

“We, shall hear no more of his insolence. I owed him a 
debt. It is paid. If fools will be in the way of danger, they 
must take the consequences.” 

The landlord only groaned. 

The murderer laughed. 

“ It is your luck,” he said, “ always to groan with devout 
feeling, when you have done the work of the devil ! You may 
spare your groans, if they are designed for repentance. They 
are always too late !” 

“ It is a sad truth, though the devil said it.” 

“ W ell, rouse up, and let’s be moving. So far, our ride has been 
for nothing. We must leave this carrion to the vultures. What 
next ? Will it be of any use to pursue this boy again to-night ? 
What say you? We must pursue and silence him of course; 
but we have pushed the brutes already sufficiently to-night. 
They would be of little service to-night, in a longer chase.” 

The person addressed did not immediately reply, and when 
he spoke, did not answer to the speech of his companion. His 
reply, at length, was framed in obedience to the gloomy and 
remorseful course of his thought. 

“It will be no wonder, Guy, if the whole country turn out 
upon us. You are too wanton in your doings. Wherefore 


What followed the murder. 289 

when I told you of your error, did you strike the poor wretch 
again.” 

The landlord, it will he seen, spoke simply with reference to 
policy and expediency, and deserved as little credit for human- 
ity as the individual he rebuked. In this particular lay the 
difference between them. Both w^ere equally ruffianly, but the 
one had less of passion, less of feeling, and more of profession 
in the matter. With the other, the trade of crime w'as adopted 
strictly in subservience to the dictates of ill-regulated desires 
and emotions, suffering defeat in their hope of indulgence, and 
stiniulating to a m orbid action which became a disease. The 
references of Munro were always addressed to the petty gains ; 
and the miserly nature, thus perpetually exhibiting itself, at 
the expense of all other ^.motions, was, in fact, the true influ- 
ence which subjected him almost to the solo dictation of his ac- 
complice, in whom a somewhat lofty distaste for such a pecu- 
liarity had occasioned a manner and habit of mind, the supe- 
riority of which was readily felt by the other. Still, "we must 
do the landlord the justice to say that he had no such passion 
for bloodshed as characterized his companion. 

“Why strike again!” was the response of Rivers. “You 
talk like a child. Would you have had him live to blab] 
Saw you not that he knew us both ] Are you so green as to 
think, if suffered to escape, his tongue or hands would have 
been idle ] Y^ou should know better. But the fact is, he could 
not have lived. The first blow was fatal ; and, if I had delib- 
erated for an instant, I should have followed the suggestions of 
your humanity — I should have withheld the second, which 
merely terminated his agony.” 

“ It was a rash and bloody deed, and I w'ould we had made 
sure of your man before blindly rushing into these unnecessary 
risks. It is owing to your insane love of blood, that you so 
frequently blunder in your object ” 

“Your scruples and complainings, Wat, remind me of that 
farmyard philosopher, who always locked the door of his stable 
after the steed had been stolen. You have your sermon ready 
in time for the funeral, but not during the life for whose benefit 
you make it. But whose fault was it that we followed the 

13 




GUY RlVElilS. 

wrong game ? Bid you not make certain of the fiesli track at 
the fork, so that there was no doubting you 

“ I did — there was a fresh track, and our coming upon For> 
tester proves it. There may have been another on the other 
prong of the fork, and doubtless the youth we pursue has taken 
tliat ; but you were in such an infernal hurry that I had scarce 
time to find rut what I did.** 

"‘Well, you will preach no more on the subject. We have 
failed, and accounting for won*t mend the failure. As for this 
bull-headed fellow, he c.esorves his fate for his old insolence. 
He was for ever pui^Liiig himself in my way, and may not com- 
plain that I have at last put him out of it. But come, we have 
no further need to remain here, though just as little to pursue 
further in the present condition of our horses.” 

“ What shall we do with the body? we can not leave it here.*’ 

“Why not? — What should we do with I pray? The 
wolves may want a dinner to-morrow, and I would be charita- 
ble. Yet stay — where is the dirk which you found at the 
stable ? Give it me.”’ 

“ What would you do ?** 

“You shall see. Forrester’s horse is off — fairly frightened, 
and will take the route back to the old range. He will doubt- 
less go to old Allen’s clearing, and carry the first news. There 
will be a search, and when they find the body, they will not 
overlook the weapon, which I shall place beside it. There 
will then be other pursuers than me ; and if it bring the boy 
to the gallows, I shall not regret our mistake to night.” 

As he spoke, he took the dagger, the sheath of which he 
threw at some distance in advance upon the road, then smeared 
the blade with the blood of the murdered man, and thrust the 
weapon into his garments, near the wound. 

“You are well taught in the profession, Guy, and, if you 
would let me, I would leave it off, if for no other reason than 
the very shame of being so much outdone in it. But we may 
as well strip him. If his gold is in his pouch, it will be a spoil 
worth the taking, for he has been melting and running for sev - 
era! days past at Murkey’s furnace.” 

Bivers turned away, and the feeling which his countenance ex- 
hibited might have been that of disdainful contempt as he replied, 


WHAT FOLLOWED THE MURDER. *291 

'‘Take it, if you please — I am in no want of liis money. 
Ml/ object was not liis robbery.” 

The scorn was seemingly undei*stood ; for, without proceed 
ing to do as he proposed, Munro retained his position for a few 
moments, appearing to busy himself with the bridle of his 
horse, having adjusted wdiicli he returned to his companion. 

“ Well, are you ready for a start? We have a good piece 
to ride, and should be in motion. We have both of us much to 
do in the next three days, or rather nights ; and need not hes- 
itate what to take hold of first. The court will sit on Monday, 
and if you are determined to stand and see it out — apian which 
I don’t altogether like — why, we must prepare to get rid of 
such witnesses as we may think likely to become troublesome.” 

“ That matter will be seen to. I have ordered Dillon to have 
ten men in readiness, if need be for so many, to carry off Pip- 
pin, and a few others, till the adjournment. It will be a dear 
jest to the lawyer, and one not less novel than terrifying to 
him, to miss a court under such circumstances. I take it, he 
has nevc.r been absent from a session for twenty years ; for, if 
sick before, he is certein to get well in time for business, spite 
of his physician.” 

The grim smile which disfigured still more the visage of 
Rivers at the ludicrous association which the proposed abduction 
of the lawyer awakened in his mind, was reflected fully back 
from that of his companion, whose habit of face, however, in 
this respect, was more notorious for gravity than any other less 
stable expression. He carried out, in words, the fancied occur- 
rence ; described the lawyer as raving over his undocketed and 
unargued cases, and the numberless embryos lying composedly 
in his pigeonholes, awaiting, with praiseworthy patience, the 
moment when they should take upon them a local habitation 
and a name; while he, upon whom they so much depended, 
was fretting with unassuaged fury in the constraints of his 
prison, and the absence from that scene of his repeated triumphs 
which before had never been at a loss for his presence. 

“But come — let us mount,” said the landlord, who did not 
feel disposed to lose much time for a jest. “ There is more 
than this to be done yet in the village ; and, I take it, you feel 
in no disposition to waste more time to-night. Let us be off” 


‘29^ GUY rivMs. 

“ So say I, but I go not back with you, Wat. I strike across 
the woods into the other road, Avhore I have much to see to ; 
besides going down the branch to Dixon’s Ford, and Wolfs 
Neck, where I must look up our men and have them ready. 
I shall not be in the village, therefore, until late to-morrow 
night — if then.” 

“ What — you are for the crossroads, again,” said Munro. 
“ I tell you what, Guy, you must have done with that girl 
before Lucy shall be yours. It’s bad enough — bad enough 
that she should be compelled to look to you for love. It were 
a sad thing if the little she might expect to find were to be 
divided between two or more.” 

“Pshaw — you are growing Puritan because of the dark. I 
tell you I have done with her. I can not altogether forget what 
she was, nor what I have made her ; and just at this time she 
is in need of my assistance. Good-night ! I shall see Dillon 
and the rest of them by morning, and prepare for the difficulty. 
My disguise shall be complete, and if you are wise you will see 
to your own. I would not think of flight, for much may be 
made out of the country, and I know of none better for our 
purposes. Good-night !” 

Thus saying, the outlaw struck into the forest, and Munro, 
lingering until he was fairly out of sight, proceeded to rifle the 
poison of Forrester — an act which the disdainful manner and 
language of his companion had made him hitherto forbear. 
The speech of Rivers on this subject had been felt ; and, taken 
in connection with the air of authority which the mental supe- 
riority of the latter had necessarily imparted to his address, 
there was much in it highly offensive to the less adventurous 
ruffian. A few moments sufficed to effect the lightening of the 
woodman’s purse of the earnings which had been so essential a 
feature in his dreams of cottage happiness ; and while engaged 
in this transfer, the discontent of the landlord with his colleague 
in crime, occasionally broke out into words — 

“He carries himself highly, indeed; and I must stand 
reproved whenever it pleases his humor. Well, I am in for it 
now, and there is no chance of my getting safely out of the 
scrape just at this moment ; but the day will come, and, by G— dl 


♦ WHAr FOLLOWED THE MURDER. 298 

I will have a settlement that’ll go near draining his heart of all 
the blo>d in it.” 

As he spoke in bitterness he approached his horse, and fling- 
ing the bridle over his neck, was in a little while a good dis- 
tance on his way from the scene of blood ; over which Silence 
now folded her wings, brooding undisturbed, as if nothing had 
taken place below ; so little is the sympathy which the tran- 
sient and inanimate nature appears, at any time, to exhibit, 
with that to the enjoyment of which it yields the bloom and 
odor of leaf and flower, soft zephyrs and refreshing waters. 


•294 


GUY RIVERS, 


CHAPTER XXIV 

THE FATES FAVOR THE FUGITIVE. 

Lei 18 now return to our young traveller, whose escape we 
have already nan-ated. 

Utterly unconscious of the melancholy circumstance which 
had diverted his enemies from the pursuit of himself, he had 
followed studiously the parting directions of the young maiden, 
to whose noble feeling and fearless courage he was indebted for 
his present safety ; and taken the almost hlind path which she 
had hastily described to him. On this route he had for some 
time gone, with a motion not extravagantly free, but sufficiently 
so, having the start, and with the several delays to which his 
pursuers had been subjected, to have escaped tlie danger — 
while the vigor of his steed lasted — even had they fallen on 
the proper route. He had proceeded in this way for several 
miles, when, at length, he came upon a place whence several 
roads diverged into opposite sections of" the country. Ignorant 
of the localities, he reined in his horse, and deliberated with 
himself for a few moments as to the path he should pursue. 
While thus engaged, a broad glare of flame suddenly illumined 
the woods on his left hand, followed with the shrieks, equally 
sudden, seemingly of a woman. 

There was no hesitation in the action of the youth. With 
unscrupulous and fearless precipitation, he gave his horse the 
necessary direction, and with a smart application of the rowel, 
plunged down the narrow path toward the spot from wffience 
the alarm had arisen. As he approached, the light grew more 
intense, and he at length discovered a little cottage-like dwel- 
ling, completely embowered in thick foliage, through the crevices 
of which the flame proceeded, revealing the cause of terror, and 
illuminating for some distance the dense woods around. The 


THE FATES FAVOR THE FUGITIVE. 


296 


shrieks still continued; and throwing himself from his horse, 
Ralph darted forward, and with a single and sudden application 
of his foot, struck the door from its hinges, and entered the 
'dwelling just in time to save its inmates from the worst of all 
kinds of death. 

The apartment was in a light blaze — the drapery of a couch 
which stood in one corner partially consumed, and, at the first 
glance, the whole prospect afforded but little hope of a success- 
ful struggle with the conflagration. There was no time to be 
lost, yet the scene was enough to have paralyzed the nerves of 
the most heroic action. 

On the couch thus circumstanced lay an elderly lady, seem- 
ingly in the very last stages of disease. She seemed only at in- 
tervals conscious of the fire. At her side, in a situation almost 
as helpless as her own, was the young female whose screams had 
first awakened the attention of the traveller. She lay moaning 
beside the couch, shrieking at intervals, and though in momen- 
tary danger from the flames, which continued to increase, taking 
no steps for their arrest. Her only efforts were taken to raise 
the old woman from the couch, and to tliic, the strength of the 
young one was wholly unequal. Ralph went manfully to work, 
and had the satisfaction of finding success ‘in his efforts. With 
a fearless hand he tore down the burning drapery which cur- 
tained the windows and couch • and which, made of light ctton 
stuffs, presented a ready auxiliar to the progress of the destruc- 
tive element. Striking down the burning shutter with a single 
blow, he admitted the fresh air, without which suffocation must 
soon have followed, and throwing from the apartment such of 
the furniture as had been seized upon by the flames, he suc- 
ceeded in arresting their farther advance. 

A ll this was the work of a few moments. There had been no 
word of intercourse between the parties, and the youth now 
surveyed them with looks of curious inquiry, for the first time. 
The invalid, as we have said, was apparently struggling with the 
last stages of natural decay. Her companion was evidently 
y^outbful, in spite of those marks whiih even the unstudied eye 
might have discerned in her features, of a temper and a spirit 
subdued and put to rest by the world’s strife and trial, and by 
afflictions which are not often found to crowd and to make up 


29*6 


GUY RIVERS. 


tlie history and being of the young. Their position was pecu 
liarly insulated, and Ralph wondered much at the singularity 
of a scene to which his own experience could furnish no parallel. 
Here were two lone women — living on the borders of a savage 
nation, and forming the frontier of a class of whites little less 
savage, without any protection, and, to his mind, without any 
motive for making such their abiding-place. His wonder might 
possibly have taken the shape of inquiry, but that there was 
something of oppressive reserve and shrinking timidity in the air 
of the young woman, who alone could have replied to his in- 
quiries. At this time an old female negro entered, now for the 
first time alarmed by the outcry, who assisted in removing such 
traces of the fire as Gtill remained about the room. She seemed 
to occupy a neighboring outhouse; to which, having done what 
seemed absolu'.e^.y necessary, she immediately retired. 

0« lleton, with a sentiment of the deepsst commiseration, pro- 
ceeded to reinstate things as they might have been before the 
conflagration, and having done so, and ha^dng soothed, as far as 
he well might, the excited apprehensions of the young girl, who 
made her acknowledgments in a not unbecoming style, he ven- 
tured to ask a few questions as to the c >ndition of the old lady 
and of herself j but, finding from the answers that the subject 
was not an agreeable one, and having no pretence for further 
delay, he prepared to depart. He inquired, however, his prop- 
er route to the Ohestatee river, and thus obtained a solution of 
the difficulty which beset him in the choice of roads at the fork. 

While thus employed, however, and just at the conclusion of 
his labors, there came another personage upon the scene, to 
whom it is necessary that we should direct our attention. 

It will be remembered that Rivers and Munro, after the mur- 
der of Forrester, had separated — the latter on his return to the 
village — the other in a direction which seemed to occasion 
some little dissatisfaction in the mind of his companion. After 
thus separating. Rivers, to whom the whole country was fa- 
miliar, taking a shorter route 'across the forest, by which the 
sinuosities of the main road were generally avoided, entered, 
after the progress of a few miles, into the very path pursued by 
Colleton, and which, had it been chosen by his pursuers in the 
firs^ instance, might have entirely changed the resrdt of the pur 


THE FATT.'S FAYOPt THE FIJGTTIYI}. 297 

suit. In taking this course it \vas not tlie thought of tlie outlaw 
to overtake the individual ivliose hlood lie so much desired ; but* 
with an object which will have its development as we continue, 
be came to the cottage at the very time when, having succeed- 
ed in overcoming the flames, Ralph was employed in a task al- 
most as difficult — that of reassuring the affrighted inmates, and 
soothing them against the apprehension of farther danger. 

With a caution which old custom had made almost natural in 
such cases, Rivers, as he approached the cross-roads, concealed 
his horse in the cover of the woods, advanced noiselessly, and 
with not a little surprise, to the cottage, whose externals had 
undergone no little alteration from the loss of the shutter, the 
blackened marks, visible enough in the moonlight, around the 
window-frame, and the general look of confusion which hung 
about it. A second glance made out the steed of our traveller, 
which he approached and examined. The survey awakened 
all those emotions which operated upon his spirit when refer- 
ring to his successful rival ; and, approaching the cottage with 
extreme caution, he took post for a while at one of the windows, 
the shutter of which, partially unclosed, enabled him to take in 
at a glance the entire apartment. 

He saw, at once, the occasion which had induced the pres- 
ence, in this situation, of his most hateful enemy; and the 
thoughts were strangely discordant which thronged and pos- 
sessed his bosom. At one moment he had drawn his pistol to 
his eye — his finger rested upon the trigger, and the doubt 
which interposed between the youth and eternity, though it 
sufficed for his safety then, was of the most slight and shadowy 
description. A second time did the mood of murder savagely 
possess his soul, and the weapon’s muzzle fell pointblank upon 
the devoted bosom of Ralph ; when the slight figure of the 
young woman passing between, again arrested the design of 
the outlaw, who, with muttered curses, uncocking, returned the 
weapon to his belt. 

Whatever might have been the relationship between himself 
and these females, there was an evident reluctance on the part 
of Rivers to exhibit his ferocious hatred of the youth before 
those to whom he had just rendered a great and unquestioned 
service ; and, though untroubled by any feeling of gratitude on 

13 * 


298 


GUY RTVEilS. 


their behalf, or on his own, he was yet unwilling, believing, as 
he did, that his victim was now perfectly secure, that they 
should undergo any further shock, at a moment too of such se- 
vere suffering and trial as must follow in the case of the young- 
er, from those fatal pangs which were destroying the other. 

Ralph now prepared to depart ; and taking leave of the 
young womar, who alone seemed conscious of his services, and 
warmly acknowledged them, he proceeded to th-e door. Rivers, 
who had watched his motions attentively, and heard the direc- 
tions given him by the girl for his progress, at the same moment 
left the window, and placed himself under the shelter of a huge 
tree, at a little distance on the path which his enemy was direct- 
ed to pursue. Here he waited like the tiger, ready to take the 
fatal leap, and plunge his fangs into the bosom of his victim. 
Nor did he wait long. 

Ralph was soon upon his steed, and on the road; but the 
Providence that watches over and protects the innocent was 
with him, and it happened, most fortunately, that ju-st before he 
reached the point at which his enemy stood in watch, the bad- 
ness of the road had compelled those who travelled it to diverge 
aside for a few paces into a little by-path, which, at a little dis- 
tance beyond, and when the bad places had been rounded, 
brought the traveller again into the proper path. Into this by- 
path, the horse of Colleton took his way ; the rider neither saw the 
embarrassments of the common path, nor that his steed had turn- 
ed aside from them. It was simply providential that the instincts 
of the horse were more heedful than the eyes of the horseman. 

It was just a few paces ahead, and on the edge of* a boggy 
hollow that Guy Rivers had planted himself in waiting. The 
tread of the young traveller’s steed, diverging from the route 
which he watched, taught the outlaw the change which it was 
required that he should also make in his position. 

“Curse him!” he muttered. “Shall there be always some- 
thing in the way of my revenge 

Such was his temper, that eveiy thing which baffled him in 
his object heightened his ferocity to a sort of madness. But 
this did not prevent his prompt exertion to retrieve the lost 
ground. ITie “ turn-out” did not continue fifty yards, before it 
again wound into the common road, and remembering this, the 


THE FATES FAVOR THE FUGITIVE. 299 

outlaw hurried across the little copse which separated the twc 
routes for a space. The slow gait at which Colleton now rode, 
unsuspicious of danger, enabled his enemy to gain the position 
which he sought, close crouching on the edge of the thicket, 
just where the roads again united. Here he waited — not 
many seconds. 

The pace of our traveller, we have said, was slow. We may 
add that his mood was also inattentive. He was not only un- 
apprehensive of present danger, but his thoughts were natural- 
ly yielded to the condition of the two poor women, in that lone- 
ly abode of forest, whom he had just rescued, in all probability, 
from a fearful death. Happy witb the pleasant consciousness 
of a good action well performed, and with spirits naturally rising 
into animation, freed as they were from a late heavy sense of 
danger — he was as completely at the mercy of the outlaw who 
awaited him, pistol in hand, as if he lay, as his poor friend, 
Forrester, so recently had done, directly beneath his knife. 

And so thought Rivers, who heard the approaching footsteps, 
and now caught a glimpse of his approaching shadow. 

The outlaw deliberately lifted his pistol. It was already 
cocked. His form was sheltered by a huge tree, and as man and 
horse gradually drew nigh, the breathing of the assassin seemed 
almost suspended in his ferocious anxiety for blood. 

The dark shadow moved slowly along the path. The head 
of the horse is beside the outlaw. In a moment the rider will 
occupy the same spot — and then ! The finger of the outlaw is 
upon the trigger — the deadly aim is taken ! — what arrests the 
deed? Ah! surely there is a Providence — a special arm to 
save — to interpose between the criminal and his victim — to 
stay the wilful hands of the murderer, when the deed seems al- 
ready done, as it has been already determined upon. 

Even in that moment, when but a touch is necessary to de- 
stroy the unconscious traveller — a sudden rush is heard above 
the robber. Great wings sweep away, with sudden clatter, and 
the dismal hootings of an owl, scared from his perch on a low 
shrub-tree, startles the cold-blooded murderer from his propri- 
ety. With the nervous excitement of his miiid, and his whole 
natui’e keenly inte^’ested in the deed, to break suddenly the 
awful silence, the brooding hush of the forest, with unexpected 


800 


GUY RIVERS. 


sounds, and those so near, and so startling — ^for once the oi.t 
law ceased to be the master of his own powers ! 

The noise of the bird scared the steed. He dashed headlong 
forward, and saved the life of his rider ! 

Yet Ralph Colleton never dreamed of his danger — never 
once conjectured how special was his obligations to the inter- 
posing hand of Providence ! And so, daily, with the best of us 
— and the least fortunate. How few of us ever dream of the 
narrow escapes we make, at moments when a breath might kill 
us, when the pressure of a “bare bodkin” is all that is necessary 
to send us to sudden judgment ! 

And the outlaw was again defeated. He had not, perhaps, 
been scared. He had only been surprised — been confounded. 
In the first cry of the bird, the first rush of his wings, flapping 
through the trees, it seemed as if they had swept across his 
eyes. He lowered the pistol involuntarily — he forgot to pull 
the trigger, and when he recovered himself, steed and rider had 
gone beyond his reach. 

“ Is there a devil,” he involuntarily murmured, “ that stands 
between me and my victim ? am I to be baffled always ? Is 
there, indeed, a God V* 

He paused in stupor and vexation. He could hear the dis- 
tant tramp of the horse, sinking faintly out of hearing. 

“ That I, who have lived in the woods all my life, should 
have been startled by an owl, and at such a moment !” 

Cursing the youth’s good fortune, not less than his own weak- 
ness, the fierce disappointment of Guy Rivers was such that be 
fairly gnashed his teeth with vexation. At first, he thought to 
dash after his victim, but his own steed had been fastened near 
the cottage, several hundred yards distant, and he was winded 
too much for a further pursuit that night. 

Colleton was, meanwhile, a mile ahead, going forward swim- 
mingly, never once dreaming of danger. He was thus far safe. 
So frequently and completely had his enemy been baffled in the 
brief progress of a single night, that he was almost led to be- 
lieve— for, like most criminals, he was not without his super- 
stition — that his foe was under some special g? ardiansbip. 
With ill-concealed anger, and a stern impatience, he turned 
away from the spot in which h^ !iad been just foiled, and soon 
entered the dwellT*^*^ •'.ncp. also 1*'' return 


Subdued agonies. 


301 


CHAPTER XXV. 

SUBDUED AGONIES. 

The entrance of Guy Rivers awakened no emotion among 
the inmates of the dwelling; indeed, at the moment, it was 
almost unperceived. The young woman happened to be in 
close attendance upon her parent, for such the invalid was, and 
did not observe his approach, while he stood at some little dis- 
tance from the couch, surveying the scene. The old lady was 
endeavoring, though with a feebleness that grew more apparent 
with every breath, to articulate something, to which she seemed 
to attach much importance, in the ears of the kneeling girl, who, 
with breathless attention, seemed desirous of making it out, but 
in vain ; and, signifying by her countenance the disappointment 
which she felt, the speaker, with something like anger, shook 
her skinny finger feebly in her face, and the broken and inco- 
herent words, with rapid effort but like success, endeavored to 
find their way through the half-closed aperture between her 
teeth. The tears fell fast and full from the eyes of the kneel- 
ing girl, who neither sobbed nor spoke, but, with continued and 
yet despairing attention, endeavored earnestly to catch the few 
words of one who was on the eve of departure, and the words 
of whom, at such a moment, almost invariably acquire a value 
never attached to them before : as the sounds of a harp, when 
the chords are breaking, are said to articulate a sweet sorrow, 
as if in mourning for their own fate. 

The outlaw, all this while, stood apart and in silence. Al- 
though perhaps but little impressed with the native solemnity 
of the scene before him, he was not so ignorant of what was 
due to humanity, and not so unfeeling in reference to the par- 
ties here interested, as to seek to disturb its progress or propri- 
ety with tone, look, or gesture, which might make either of 
them regret his presence. Becomiiig impatient, however, of a 


m 


GUY RIVERS. 


colloquy wliicli, as lie saw that if had not its use, and was only 
productive of mortificatioti to one of the parties, he thought 
only prudent to terminate, he advanced toward them ; and his 
tread, for the first time, warned them of his presence. 

With an effort which seemed supernatural, the dying woman 
raised herself with a sudden start in the bed, and her eyes 
glared upon him with a threatening horror, and her lips part- 
ing, disclosed the broken and decayed teeth beneath, ineffectu- 
ally gnashing, while her long, skinny fingers warned him away. 
All this time she appeared to speak, but the words were unar- 
ticulated, though, from the expression of every feature, it was 
evident that indignation and reproach made up the entire 
amount of everything she had to express. The outlaw was not 
easily influenced by anger so impotent as this ; and, from his 
manner of receiving it, it appeared that he had been for some 
time accustomed to a reception of a like kind from the same 
person. He approached the young girl, who had now risen 
from her knees, and spoke to her in words of comparative kind- 
ness ; — 

“Well, Ellen, you have had an alarm, but I am glad to see 
you have suffered no injury. How happened the fire 

The young woman explained the cause of the conflagration, 
and narrated in brief the assistance which had been received 
from the stranger. 

“ But I was so terrified, Guy,” she added, “^that I had not 
presence of mind enough to thank him.” 

“ And what should be the valiie of your spoken thanks, Ellen ? 
The stranger, if he have sense, must feel that he has them, and 
the utterance of such things had better be let alone. But, how 
is the old lady now 1 I see she loves me no better than for 
merly.” 

“ She is sinking fast, Guy, and is now incapable of speech. 
Before you came, she seemed desirous of saying something to 
me, but she tried ii vain to speak, and now I scarcely think 
her conscious.” 

“ Believe it not, Ellen : she is conscious of all that is going 
on, though her voice may fail her. Her eye is even now fixed 
upon me, and with the old expression. She would tear me if 
she could.” 


SUBDUED AGONIES. 


303 


“Oil, think not thus of the dying, Guy — of her Avho has 
never harmed, and would never harm you, if she had the power. 
And yet. Heaven knoAvs, and we both knoAv, she has had rea- 
son enough to hate, and, if she could, to destroy you. But she 
has no such feeling now.” 

“ You mistake, Ellen, or would keep the truth from me. You 
know she has always hated me; and, indeed, as you say, she 
has had cause enough to hate and destroy me. Had another 
done to me as I have done to her, I should not have slept till 
my hand was in his heart.” 

“ She forgives you all, Guy, I know she does, and God knows 
I forgive you — I, who, above all others, have most reason to 
curse you for ever. Think not that she can hate upon the 
brink of the grave. Her mind wanders, and no wonder that 
the wrongs of earth press upon her memory, her reason being 
gone. She knows not herself of the mood which her features 
express. Look not upon her, Guy, I pray you, or let me turn 
away my eyes.” 

“ Your spirit, Ellen, is more gentle and shrinking than hers. 
Had you felt like her, I verily believe that many a night, when 
I have been at rest within your arms, you Avould have driven a 
knife into my heart.” 

“ Horrible, Guy ! how can you imagine such a thing ? Base 
and Avorthless as you have made me, I am too much in your 
power, I fear — I love you still too much ; and, though like o 
poison or a firebrand you have clung to my bosom, I could not 
have felt for you a single thought of resentment. You say well 
when you call me shrinking. I am a creature of a thousand 
fears ; I am all weakness and worthlessness.” 

“ Well, well — let us not talk further of this. When was the 
doctor here last ?” 

“ In the evening he came, and left some directions, but told 
us plainly Avhat we had to expect. He said she could not sur- 
vive longer than the night ; and she looks like it, for within the 
last few hours she has sunk surprisingly. But have you brought 
the medicine ?” 

“ I have, and some drops which are said to stimulate and 
strengthen.” 

“ I fear they are now of little use, and may only serve to keep 


304 


GUY RIVERS. 


up life in misery. But they may enable her to speak, arid I 
should like to hear what she seems so desirous to impart.” 

Ellen took the cordial, and hastily preparing a portion in a 
wine-glass, according to the directions, proceeded to administer 
it to the gasping patient j hut, while the glass was at her lips, 
the last paroxysm of death came on, and with it something more 
of that consciousness now fleeting for ever. Dashing asid^ the 
nostrum with one hand, with the other she drew the sh'-riking 
and half-fainting girl to her side, and, pressing her down li'ecide 
her, appeared to give utterance to that which, from the action, 
and the few and audible words she made out to articulate, would 
seem to have been a benediction. 

Rivers, seeing the motion, and remarking the almost super- 
natural strength with which the last spasms had endued her, 
would have taken the girl from her embrace ; but his design 
was anticipated by the dying woman, whose eyes glared upon 
hidi with an expression rather demoniac than human, while her 
paralytic hand, shaking with ineffectual effort, waved him off. 
A broken word escaped her lips here and there, and — “ sin”-— 
“ forgiveness” — was all that reached the ears of her grandchild, 
when her head sank back upon the pillow, and she expired 
without a groan. 

A dead silence followed this event. The girl had no uttered 
anguish — she spoke not her sorrows aloud; yet there was that 
in the wobegone countenance, and the dumb grief, that left no 
doubt of the . deep though suppressed and half-subdued agony 
of soul within. She seemed one to whom the worst of life had 
been long since familiar, and who would not find it difficult her- 
self to die. She had certainly outlived pride and hope, if not 
love ; and if the latter feeling had its place in her bosom, as 
without doubt it had, then was it a hopeless lingerer, long after 
the sunshine and zephyr had gone which first awakened it into 
bloom and flower. She knelt beside the inanimate form of her 
old parent, shedding no tear, and uttering no sigh. Tears would 
have poorly expressed the wo which at that moment she felt ; 
and the outlaw, growing impatient of the dumb spectacle, now 
ventured to approach and, interrupt her. She rose, meekly and 
without reluctance, as he spoke ; with a manner which said as 
plainly as words could have said — ‘Command, and I obey. 


SUBDUED AGONIES. 


305 


Bid me go even now, at midnight, on a perilous journey, over 
and into foreign lands, and I go without mmmur or repining.’ 
She was a heart-stricken, a heart-broken, and abused woman — 
and yet she loved still, and loved her destroyer. 

“ Ellen,” said he, taking her hand, “ your mother was a Chris- 
tian — a strict worshipper — one who, for the last few years of 
her life, seldom put the Bible out of her hands ; and yet she 
cursed me in her very soul as she went out of the world.” 

“ Guy, Guy, speak not so, I pray you. Spare me this cruelty, 
and say not for the departed spirit what it surely never would 
have said of itself.” 

“ But it did so say, Ellen, and of this I am satisfied. Hear 
me, girl. I know something of mankind, and womankind too, 
and I am not often mistaken in the expression of human faces, 
and certainly was not mistaken in hers. When, in the last 
paroxysm, you knelt beside her with your head down upon her 
hand and in her grasp, and as I approached her, her eyes, which 
feebly threw up the film then rapidly closing over them, shot 
out a most angry glare of hatred and reproof ; while her lips 
parted — I could see, though she could articulate no word — 
with involutions which indicated the curse that she could not 
speak.” 

“ Think not so, I pray you. She had much cause to curse, 
and often would she have done so, but for my sake she did not. 
She would call me a poor fool, that so loved the one who had 
brought misery and shame to all of us ; but her malediction was 
arrested, and she said it not. Oh, no ! she forgave you — I 
know she did — heard you not the words which she uttered at 
the last ?” 

“Yes, yes — hut no matter. We must now talk of other 
things, Ellen ; and first of all, you must know, then, I am about 
to be man-ied. 

Had a bolt from the crossbow at that moment penetrated into 
her heart, the person he addressed could not have been more 
transfixed than at this speech. She started — an inquiring and 
tearful doubt rose into her eyes, as they settled piercingly upon 
his own ; but the information they met with there needed no 
further word of assurance from his lips. He was a stern tyrant 
•—one- however, who did not trifle. 


806 


GUY RIVERS. 


“ I feared as much, Guy - - 1 have had thoughts which aa 
good as told me this long h ifore. The silent form before me 
has said to me, over and over again, you would never wed her 
whom you have dishonored. Oh, fool that I was ! — spite of 
her forebodings and my own, I thought — I still think, and oh, 
Guy, let me not think in vain — that there would be a time 
when you would take away the reproach from my name and 
the sin from my soul, by making me your wife, as you have so 
often promised.” 

“ You have indeed thought like a child, Ellen, if you sup- 
pose that, situated as I am, I could ever marry simply because I 
loved.” 

“ And Avill you not love her whom you are nov7 about to 
wed?” 

“Not as much as I have loved you — not half so much as I 
love you now — if it be that I have such a feeling at this mo- 
ment in my bosom. 

“ And wherefore then would you wed, Guy, with one Avhom 
you do not, whom you can not love 1 In what have I offended 
— have I ever reproached or looked unkindly on you, Guy, 
even when you came to me, stern and full of reproaches, chafed 
with all things and with everybody ?” 

“ There are motives, Ellen, governing my actions into which 
you must not inquire — ” 

“ What, not inquire, when on these actions depend all my 
hope — all my life ! Now indeed you are the tyrant which my 
old mother said, and all people say, you are.” 

The girl for a moment forgot her submissiveness, and her 
words were tremulous, less with sorrow than the somewhat 
strange spirit which her wrongs had impressed upon her. But 
siie soon felt the sinking of the momentary inspiration, and 
quickly sought to remove the angry scowl which she perceived 
coming over the brow of her companion. 

“Nay, nay — forgive me, Guy — let me not reproach — let 
me not accuse you. I have not done so before : I would not 
do so now. Do with me as you please ; and yet, if you are bent 
to wod with another, and forget and overlook your wrongs to 
me, there is one kindness which would become yoUr handsj and 
tvliieli 1 \Voul(t jo^ to receive from them. Will you do for )»e 


SUBDUED AGONIES. 307 

this kindness, Guy ? Nay, now be not harsh, but say that you 
will do it.” 

She seized his hand appealingly as she spoke, and her moist 
but untearful eyes were fixed pleadingly upon his own. The 
outlaw hesitated for a moment before he replied. 

“ I propose, Ellen, to do for you all that may be necessary — 
to provide you with additional comforts, and carry you to a 
place of additional security, where you shall live to yo'uself, 
and have good attendance.” 

“ This is kind — this is much, Guy; but not much more than 
you have been accustomed to do for me. That which I seek 
from you now is something more than this ; promise me that it 
shall be as I say.” 

“ If it breaks not into my arrangements — if it makes me not 
go aside from my path, I will certainly do it, Ellen. Speak, 
therefore ; what is it I can do for you ?” 

“ It will interfere with none of your arrangements, Guy, I 
am sure ; it can not take you from your path, for you could not 
have provided for that of which you knew not. I have your 
pledge, therefore — have I not?” 

“ You have,” was the reply, while the manner of Rivers was 
tinctured with something like curiosity. 

“That is kind — that is as you ought to be. Hear me now, 
then,” and her voice sunk into a whisper, as if she feared the 
utterance of her own words; “take your knife, Guy — pause 
not, do it quickly, lest I fear and tremble — strike it deep into 
the bosom of the poor Ellen, and lay her beside the cold parent, 
whose counsels she despised, and all of whose predictions are 
now come true. Strike — strike quickly, Guy Rivers; I have 
your promise — you can not recede; if you have honor, if you 
have truth, you must do as I ask. Give me death — give me 
peace.” 

“ Foolish girl, would you trifle with me — would you have me 
spurn and hate you ? Beware !” 

The outlaw well knew the yielding and sensitive mater’ al 
out of which his victim had been made. His stern rebuke wa.« 
well calculated to effect in her bosom that revulsion of feeling 
which he knew would follow any threat of a withdrawal, even 
of the liiigering fthd frail fibres of that aflPectioti, few and fceblo 


308 


.GUY RIVEKS. 


as they were, which he might have once persuaded her to be- 
lieve had bound him to her. The consequence was immediate, 
and her subdued tone and resigned action evinced the now en- 
tire supremacy of her natural temperament. 

“ Oh, forgive me, Guy, I know not what I ask or what I do. 
I am so worn and weary, and my head is so heavy, that I think 
it were far better if I were in my grave with the cold frame 
.whom we shall soon put there. Heed not what I say — I am 
sad and sick, and have not the spirit of reason, or a healthy 
will to direct me. Do with me as you will — I will obey you 
— go anywhere, and, worst of all, behold you wed another; ay, 
stand by, if you desire it, and look on the ceremony, and try to 
forget that you once promised me that I should be yours, and 
yours only.” 

“You speak more wisely, Ellen; and you will think more 
calmly upon it when the present grief of your grandmother’s 
death passes off.” 

“ Oh, that is no grief, now, Guy,” was the rather hasty reply. 
“ That is no grief now : should I regret that she has escaped 
these tidings — should I regret that she has ceased to feel trou- 
ble, and to see and shed tears — should I mourn, Guy, that she 
who loved me to the last, in spite of my follies and vices, has 
ceased now to mourn over them ? Oh, no ! this is no grief, now ; 
it was grief but a little while ago, but now you have made it 
matter of rejoicing.” 

“Think not of it, — speak no more in this strain, Ellen, lest 
you anger me.” 

“I will not — chide me not — I have no farther reproaches. 
Yet, Guy, is she, the lady you are about to wed — is she beauti- 
ful, is she young — has she long raven tresses, as I had once, 
when your fingers used to play in them?” and with a sickly 
smile, which had in it something of an old vanity, she unbound 
the string which confined her own hair, and let it roll down 
upon her back in thick and beautiful volumes, still black, glossy 
and delicately soft as silk. 

The outlaw was moved. For a moment his iron muscles re- 
laxed — a gentler expression overspread his countenance, and 
he took her in his arms. That single, half-reluctant embrace 
was a boon not much bestowed in the latter days of his victim, 


SUBDUED AGONIES/' 


m 

And it awakened a thousand tender recollections in her heart, 
and unsealed a warm spring of gushing waters. An infantile 
smile was in her eyes, while the teats were flowing down her 
cheeks. 

But, shrinking or yielding, at least to any great extent, made 
Up very little of the character of the dark man on whom she 
depended; and the more than feminine weakness of the young 
girl who hung upon his bosom like a dying flower, received its 
rebuke, after a few moments of unwonted tenderness, when, 
coldly resuming his stern habit, he put her from his arms, and 
announced to her his intention of immediately taking his de- 
parture. 

“ What,” she asked, “ will you not stay with me through the 
night, and situated as I am 

“It is impossible; even uow I am waited for, and should 
have been some hours on my way to an appointment which I 
must not break. It is not with me as with you ; I have obliga- 
tions to others who depend on me, and who might suffer injury 
were I to deceive them.” 

“ But this night, Guy — there is little of it left, and I am sure 
you will not be expected before the daylight. I feel a new 
terror when I think I shall be left by all, and here, too, alone 
with the dead.” 

“ You will not be alone, and if you were, Ellen, you have 
been thus lonely for many months past, and should be now ac- 
customed to it.” 

“ Why, so I should, for it has been a fearful and a weary time, 
and I went not to my bed one night without dreading that I 
should never behold another day.” 

“ Why, what had you to alarm you ? you suffered no affright 
— no injury ? I had taken care that throughout the forest your 
cottage should be respected.” 

“ So I had your assurance, and when I thought, I believed it. 
I knew you had the power to do as you assured me you would, 
but still there were moments when our own desolation came 
across my mind ; and what with my sorrows and my fears, I 
was sometimes persuaded, in my madness, to pray that I might 
be relieved of them, were it even by the hands of death.” 

“ You were ever thus foolish, Ellen, and you have as little 


310 


6tJV 


reaso-n now to appreliend as tlien. Besides, it is only tor tte 
one night, and in the morning I shall send those to you who 
will attend to your own removal to another spot, and to the in- 
terment of the body.” 

“ And where am I to go ?” 

“ What matters it where, Ellen ? You have my assurance 
that it shall be a place of security and good attendance to which 
I shall send you.” 

True, what matters it where I go — whether among the sav 
ago or the civilized ? They are to me all alike, since I may not 
look them in the face, or take them by the hand, or hold com- 
munion with them, either at the house of God or at the family 
fireside.” 

The gloomy despondence of her spirit was uppermost; and 
she went on, in a series of bitter musings, denouncing herself 
as an outcast, a worthless something, and, in the . language of 
the sacred text, calling on the rocks and mountains to cover 
her. The outlaw, who had none of those fine feelings which 
permitted of even momentary sympathy with that desolation of 
heart, the sublime agonies of which are so well calculated to en 
list and awaken it, cut short the strain of sorrow and complaint 
by a fierce exclamation, which seemed to stun every sense of 
her spirit. 

“Will you never have done!” he demanded. “Am I for 
ever to listen to this weakness — this unavailing reproach of 
yourself and everything around you ? Do I not know that all 
your complaints and reproaches, though you address them in so 
many words to yourself, are intended only for my use and ear 1 
Can I not see through the poor hypocrisy of such a lamenta- 
tion ? Know I not that when you curse and deplore the sin, 
you only withhold the malediction from him who tempted and 
partook of it, in the hope that his own spirit will apply it all to 
himself? Away, girl; I thought you had a nobler spirit — I 
thought you felt the love that I now find existed only in ex- 
pression.” 

“I do feel that love; I would, Guy that I felt it not — 
that it did exist only in my words. I were then far happier 
than I am now, since stern look or language from you would 
then utterly fail to vex and wound as it does new. I can not 


SUBDUED agonies. 


*311 


bear your reproaches j look not thus upon me, and K>peak not in 
those harsh sentences — not now — not now, at least, and in this 
melancholy presence.” 

Her looks turned upon the dead body of her parent as she 
spoke, and with convulsive effort she rushed toward and clasped 
it round. She’ threw herself beside the corpse and remained 
inanimate, while the outlaw, leaving the house for an instant, 
called the negro servant and commanded her attendance. He 
now approached the girl, and taking up her hand, which lay 
supine upon the bosom of the dead body, would have soothed 
her grief ; but though she did not repulse, she yet did not re- 
gard him. 

“Be calm, Ellen,” he said, “recover and be firm. In the 
morning you shall have early and good attention, and with this 
object, in part, am I disposed to hurry now. Think not, girl, 
that I forget you. Whatever may be my fortune, I shall al- 
ways have an eye to yours. I leave you now, but shall see you 
before long, when I shall settle you permanently and comforta- 
bly. Farewell.” 

He left her in seeming unconsciousness of the words whis 
pered in her ears, yet she heard them all, and duly estimated 
their value. To her, to whom he had once pledged himself en- 
tirely, the cold boon of his attention and sometime care was 
painfully mortifying. She exhibited nothing, however, beyond 
vvhat we have already seen, of the effect of this consolation upon 
her heart. There is a period in human emotions, when feeling 
itself becomes imperceptible — when the heart (as it were) re- 
ceives the coup de grace, and days, and months, and years, be- 
fore the body expires, shows nothing of the fire which is con- 
suming it. 

We would not have it understood to be altogether the case 
with the young destitute before us; but, at least, if she still 
continued to feel these still-occurring influences, there was little 
or no outward indication of their power upon the hidden spirit. 
She said nothing to him on his departure, but with a half-wan- 
dering sense, that may perhaps have described something of the 
i-uling passion of an earlier day, she rose shortly after he had 
left the house, and placing herself before the small mirror which 
surmounted the toilet in the apartment, rearranged with studi- 


gl2 


(Jut RtVEfiS. 


ous care, and with an eye to its most attractive appearance, the 
long and flowing tresses of that hair, which, as we have already 
remarked, was of the most silky and ravendike description 
Every ringlet was adjusted to its place, as if nothing of sorrow 
was about her — none of the badges and evidences of death and 
decay in her thought. She next proceeded to the readjustment 
of the dress she wore, taking care that a string of pearl, proba- 
bly the gift of her now indifferent lover, should leave its place 
in the little cabinet, where, with other trinkets of the kind, it 
had been locked up carefully for a long season, and once more 
adorned with it the neck which it failed utterly to surpass in 
delicacy or in whiteness. Having done this, she again took 
her place on the couch, along with the corpse; and with a 
manner which did not appear to indicate a doubt of the still 
lingering spirit, she raised the lifeless head, with the gentlest 
effort placing her arm beneath, then laid her own quietly on 
the pillow beside it. 


THE CAM?. 


m 


CHAPTER XXVI 

THE CAMP. 

Ignorant, as we have already said, of his late most provi- 
dential escape from the weapon of his implacable enemy, Ralpli 
Colleton was borne forward by his affrighted steed with a de- 
gree of rapidity which entirely prevented his rider from re- 
marking any of the objects around him, or, indeed, as the moon 
began to wane amid a clustering body of clouds, of determining 
positively whether he were still in the road or not. The tract 
(as public roads are called in that region) had been rudely cut 
out by some of the earlier travellers through the Indian coun- 
try, merely traced out — and hence, perhaps, the term — by a 
blaze, or white spot, made upon the trees by hewing from them 
the bark ; which badge, repeated in succession upon those grow^ 
ing immediately upon the line chosen for the destined road, in- 
dicated its route to the wayfarer. It had never been much 
travelled, and from the free use at the present time of other and 
more direct courses, it was left almost totally unemployed, save 
by those living immediately in its neighborhood. It had, there- 
fore, become, at the time of which we speak, what, in hackwood 
phrase, is known as a blind-path 

Such being the case, it is not difficult to imagine that, when 
able to restrain his horse, Ralph, as he feared, found himself 
entirely out of its guidance — wandering without direction 
among the old trees of the forest. Still, as for the night, now 
nearly over, he could have no distinct point in view, and saw 
just as little reason to go hack as forward, he gave himself but 
little time for scruple or hesitation. Resolutely, though witli a 
cautious motion, he pricked his steed forward through the 
woods, accommodating his philosophy, as well as he could, to 


314 


GUY RIVERS. 


the various interruptions which the future, as if to rival the 
l)ast, seemed to have treasured up in store for him. 

He had not proceeded far in this manner when he caught the 
dim rays of a distant fire, flickering and ascending among the 
trees to the left of the direction he was taking. The blaze liad 
something in it excessively cheering, and, changing his course, 
he went forward under its guidance. In this effort, he stum- 
bled upon something like a path, which, pursuing, brought him 
at length to a small and turbid creek, into which he plunged 
fearlessly, and soon found himself in swimming water. The 
ford had been little used, and the banks were steep, so that he 
got out with difficulty upon the opposite side. Having done so, 
his eye was enabled to take a full view of the friendly fire which 
had just attracted his regard, and which he soon made out to 
proceed from the encampment of a wagoner, such as may be 
seen every day, or every night, in the wild woods of the south- 
ern country. 

He was emigrating, with all his goods and gods, to that won- 
derfully winning region, in the estimation of this people, the 
valley of the Mississippi. The emigrant was a stout, burly, 
bluff old fellow, with full round cheeks, a quick, twinkling eye, 
and limbs rather Herculean than human. He might have been 
fifty-five years or so ; and his two sons, one of them a man 
grown, the other a tall and goodly youth of eighteen, promised 
well to be just such vigorous and healthy-looking personages 
as their father. The old woman, by whom we mean — in the 
manner of speech common to the same class and region — to in- 
dicate the spouse of the wayfarer, and mother of the two youths, 
was busied about the fire, boiling a pot of coffee, and preparing 
the family repast for the night. A somewhat late hour for sup- 
per and such employment, thought our wanderer ; but the diffi- 
culty soon explained itself in the condition of their wagon, and 
the conversation which ensued among the travellers. There 
was yet another personage in the assembly, who must be left to 
introduce himself to the reader. 

Theyhrce of the traveller— for such is the term by which the 
number of his slaves are understood — was small , consisting of 
some six workers, and three or four little negro children asleep 
under the wagon, The worked pied at a little dis 


THE CAMP. 


81 ^ 


tance, in replacing boxes, beds, and some household trumpery, 
which had been taken out of the wagon, to enable them to effect 
its release from the slough in which it had cast one of its wheels, 
and broken its axle, and the restoration of which had made their 
supper so late in the night. The heavier difficulties of their 
labor had been got over, and with limbs warmed and chafed by 
the extra exercise they had undergone, the whites had thrown 
themselves under a tree, at a little distance from the fire at 
which the supper was in preparation, while a few pine torches, 
thrown together, gave them sufficient light to read and remark 
the several countenances of their group. 

“Well, by dogs, we’ve had a tough ’bout of it, boys; and, 
hark’ye, strannger, gi’ us your hand. I don’t know what we 
should have done without you, for I never seed inan handle a 
little poleaxe as you did that same affair of your’n. You must 
have spent, I reckon, a pretty smart time at the use of it, now, 
didn’t ye?” 

To this speech of the farmer, a ready reply was given by the 
stranger, in the identical voice and language of our old acquaint- 
ance, the pedler, Jared Bunce, of whom, and of whose stock in 
trade, the reader will probably have some recollection. 

“Well, now, I guess, friend, you an’t far wide of your reck- 
oning. I’ve been a matter of some fifteen or twenty years 
knocking about, off and on, in one way or another, with this 
same instrument, and pretty’s the service now, I tell ye, that 
it’s done me in that bit of time.” 

“No doubt, no doubt ; but what’s your trade, if I may be so 
bold, that made you larn the use of it so nicely ?” 

“ Oh, what — my trade ? Why, to say the truth, I never was 
brought up to any trade in particular, but I am a pretty slick 
hand, now, I tell you, at all of them. I’ve been in my time a 
little of a farmer, a little of a merchant, a little of a sailor, and, 
somehow or other, a little of everything, and all sort of things. 
My father was jest like myself, and swore, before I was born, 
that I should be born jest like him — and so I was. Never 
were two black peas more alike. He was a ’cute old fellow, 
and swore he’d make me so too — and so he did. You know 
how he did that? — now. I’ll go a York shilling against a Lou- 
isiana bit, that you can’t tell to save you.” 


316 


GUY RIVEllS. 


‘‘Why, no, I can’t — let’s hear,” was the response of the 
wagoner, somewhat astounded by the volubility of his new ac- 
quaintance. 

“ Well, then. I’ll tell you. He sent me away, to make my 
fortin, and git my edication, ’mongst them who was ’cute them- 
selves, and maybe that an’t the best school for laming a simple 
boy ever went to. It was sharp edge agin sharp edge. It was 
the very making of me, so far as I was made.” 

“ Well, now, that is a smart way, I should reckon, to get one’s 
edication. And in this way I suppose you lamed how to chop 
with your little poleaxe. Dogs ! hut you’ve made me as smart 
a looking axle as I ever tacked to my team.” 

“ I tell you, friend, there’s nothing like sich an edication. It 
does everything for a man, and he larns to make everything 
out of nothing. I could make my bread where these same In- 
dians wouldn’t find the skin of a hoe-cake ; and in these woods, 
or in the middle of the sea, t’ant anything for me to say I can 
always fish up some notion that will sell in the market.” 

“Well, now, that’s wonderful, strannger, and I should like to 
see how you would do it.” 

“ You can’t do nothing, no how, friend, unless you begin at 
the beginning. You’ll have to begin when you’re jest a mere 
boy, and set about getting your edication as I got mine. There’s 
no two ways about it. It won’t come to you ; you must go to 
it. When you’re put out into the wide world, and have no com- 
pany and no acquaintance, why, what are you to do ? Suppose, 
now, -when your wagon mired down, I had not come to your 
help, and cut out your wood, and put in the spoke, wouldn’t 
you have had to do it yourself?” 

“ Yes — to he sure ; but then I couldn’t have done it in a day. 
I an’t handy at these things.” 

“ Well, that was jest the way with me when I was a boy. I 
had nobody to help me out of the mud — nobody to splice my 
spokes, or assist me any how, and so I lamed to do it myself. 
And now, would you think it, I’m sometimes glad of a little 
timn-over, or an accident, jest that I may keep my hand in and 
not forget to be able to help myself or my neighbors.” 

“ Well, you’re a cur’ous person, and I’d like to hear some- 
thing more about you. But it’s high time we should wet our 


THE CAMP. 


317 


whistles, and it’s but dry talking without something to wash a 
clear way for the slack. So, boys, be up, and fish up the jemmi- 
john — I hope it hain’t been thumped to bits in the rut. If it 
has, I sliall be in a tearing passion.” 

“ Well, now, that won’t be reasonable, seeing that it’s no use, ’ 
and jest wasting good breath that might bring a fair price in 
the market.” 

“ What, not get in a passion if all the whiskey’s gone ? That 
won’t do, strannger, and though you have helped me out of the 
ditch, by dogs, no man shall prevent me from getting in a pas- 
sion if I choose it.” 

“Oh, to be sure, friend — you an’t up to my idee. I didn’t 
know that it was for the good it did you that you got in a pas- 
sion. I am clear that when a man feels himself better from a 
passion, he oughtn’t to be shy in getting into it. Though that 
wasn’t a part of my edication, yet I guess, if such a thing would 
make me feel more comfortable, I’d get in a passion fifty times 
a day.” 

“ Well, now, strannger, you talk like a man of sense. ’Drot 
the man, says I, who hain’t the courage to get in a passion ! 
None but a miserable, shadow-skinning Yankee would refuse to 
get in a passion when his jug of whiskey was left in the road !” 

“A-hem — ” coughed the dealer in small wares — the speech 
of the old wagoner grating harshly upon his senses ; for if the 
Yankee be proud of anything, it is of his country — its enter- 
prise, its institutions ; and of these, perhaps, he has more true 
and unqualified reason to be pleased and proud than any other 
one people on the face of the globe. He did not relish well the 
sitting quietly under the harsh censure of his companion, who 
seemed to regard the existence of a genuine emotion among the 
people down east as a manifest absurdity ; and was thinking to 
come out with a defence-, in detail, of the pretensions of New 
England, when, prudence having first taken a survey of the 
huge limbs of the wagoner, and calling to mind the fierce pre- 
judices of the uneducated southrons generally against all his 
tribe, suggested the convenient propriety of an evasive reply. 

“ A-'hem — ” repeated the Yankee, the argumentum ad homi 
nem still prominent in his eyes — “ well, now, I take it, friend, 
there’s no love to spare for the people you speak of down ip 


318 


GUY RIVERS. 


these parts. They don't seem to smell at all pleasant jn this 
country.” 

“No, I guess not, strannger, as how should they — a mean, 
tricky, catchpenny, skulking set — that makes money out of 
'everybody, and hain’t the spirit to spend it ! I do hate them, 
now, worse than a polecat !” 

“ Well, now, friend, that’s strange. If you were to travel for 
a spell, down about Boston or Salem in Massachusetts, or at 
Meriden in Connecticut, you’d hear tell of the Yankees quite 
different. If you believe what the people say thereabouts, you’d 
think there was no sich people on the face of the airth.” 

“ That’s jist because they don’t know anything ab jut them ; 
and it’s not because they can’t know them neither, for a Yankee 
is a varmint you can nose anywhere. It must be that none ever 
travels in those parts — selling their tin-kettles, and their wooden 
clocks, and all their notions.” 

“ Oh, yes, they do. They make ’em in those parts. I know 
it by this same reason, that I bought a lot myself from a house 
ill Connecticut, a town called Meriden, where they make almost 
nothing else but clocks — where they make ’em by steam, and 
horse-power, and machinery, and will turn you out a hundred 
or two to a minute.” 

The pedler had somewhat “overleaped his shoulders,” as 
they phrase it in the West, when his companion drew himself 
back over the blazing embers, with a look of ill-concealed aver 
sion, exclaiming, as he did so — 

“ Why, you ain’t a Yankee, air you V* 

The pedler was a special pleader in one sense of the word, 
and knew the value of a technical distinction as well as his 
friend. Lawyer Pippin. His reply was prompt and profes- 
sional : — 

“ Why, no, I ain’t a Yankee according to your idee. It’s 
true, I was born among them ; but that, you know, don’t make 
a man one on them 1” 

“ No, to be sure not. Every man that’s a freeman has a right 
to choose what country he shall belong to. My dad was born 
in Ireland, yet he always counted himself a full-blooded Amer- 
ican.” 

The old man found a 'parallel in his father’s nativity, which 


THE CAMP. 3 19 

Batisfied liimself of tlie legitimacy of the groi/nd taken by the 
pedler, and helped the latter out of his difficulty. 

“ But here’s the whiskey standing by us all the time, waiting 
patiently to be drunk. Here, Nick Snell, boy, take your hands 
out of your breeches-pocket, and run down with the calabash to 
the branch. The water is pretty good thar, I reckon ; and, 
strannger, after we’ve taken a sup, we’ll feat a bite, and then lie 
down. It’s high time, I reckon, that we do so.” 

It was in his progress to the branch that Ralph Colleton came 
upon this member of the family. 

Nick Snell was no genius, and did not readily reply to the pas- 
sing inquiry which was put to him by the youth, who advanced 
upon the main party while the dialogue between the pedler and 
the wagoner was in full gust. They started, as if by common 
consent, to their feet, as his horse’s tread smote upon their ears ; 
but, satisfied with the appearance of a single man, and witnes- 
sing the jaded condition of his steed, they were content to in- 
vite him to partake with them of the rude cheer which the 
good-woman was now busied in setting before him. 

The hoe-cakes and bacon were smoking finely, and the fa- 
tigue of the youth engaged his senses, with no unwillingness on 
their part, to detect a most savory attraction in the assault which 
they made upon his sight and nostrils alike. He waited not 
for a second invitation, but in a few moments — having first 
stripped his horse, and put the saddle, by direction of the emi- 
grant, into his wagon — he threw himself beside them upon the 
^ ground, and joined readily and heartily in the consumption of 
the goodly edibles which were spread out before them. 

They had not been long at this game, when a couple of fine 
watch-dogs which were in the camp, guarding the baggage, gave 
the alarm, and the whole party was on the alert, with sharp 
eye and cocked rifle. They commenced a survey, and at some 
distance could hear the tread of horsemen, seemingly on the 
approach. The banditti, of which we have already spoken, 
were well known to the emigrant, and he had already to com- 
plain of divers injuries at their hands. It is not, therefore, 
matter of surprise, that he should place his sentinels, and pre- 
pare even for the most audacious attack. 

He haR aiiarnftly made this dis|)Osition of his forces, which 


320 


GUY fllVERS. 


exliibitcd them to the best advantage, when the strangers made 
their appearance. They rode cautiously around, without ap- 
proaching the defences sufficiently nigh to occasion strife, but 
e\ idently having for their object originally an attack upon the 
wayfarer. At length, one of the party, which consisted of six 
persons, now came forward, and, with a friendly tone of voice, 
bade them good-ev^ening in a manner which seemed to indicate 
a desire to be upon a footing of the most amiable sort with them. 
The old man answered dryly, with some show of sarcastic in- 
difference in his speech — 

“ Ay, good evening enough, if the moon had not gone down, 
and if the stars were out, that we might pick out the honest 
men from the rogues.” 

“ What, are there rogues in these parts, then, old gentleman V* 
asked the new-comer. 

“ Why do you ask me 1” was the sturdy reply. “ You ought 
to be able to say, without going farther than your own pockets.” 

“ Why, you are tough to-night, my old buck,” was the some- 
what crabbed speech of the visiter. 

“ You’ll find me troublesome, too, Mr. Nightwalker ; so take 
good counsel, and be off while you’ve whole bones, or I’ll tum- 
ble you now in half a minute from your crittur, and give you 
a sharp supper of pine-knots.” 

“ Well, that wouldn’t be altogether kind on your part, old fel- 
low, and I mightn’t be willing to let you ; but, as you seem not 
disposed to be civil, I suppose the best thing I can do is to 
be off.” 

“Ay, ay, be off. You get nothing out of us; and we’ve no 
shot that we want to throw away. Leave you alone, and Jack 
Ketch will save us shot.” 

“ Ha, ha !” exclaimed the outlier, in concert, and from the 
deeper emphasis which he gave it, in chorus to the laughter 
which followed, among the party, the dry expression of the old 
man’s humor — 

“Ha, ha ! old boy — you have the swing of it to-night,” con 
tinned the visiter, as he rode off to his companions ; “ but, if you 
don’t mind, we shall smoke you before you get into Alabam I” 

The robber rejoined his companions, and a sort of council foji* 
deliberation was determined upon among them* 


THE CAMP. 


321 


“ How now, Lambert ! you have been at dead fault,” u as his 
sudden address, as he returned, to one of the party. “ You as- 
sured me that old Snell and his two sons were the whole force 
that he carried, while I find two stout, able-bodied men besides, 
all well armed, and ready for the attack. The old woman, too, 
standing with the gridiron in her fists, is equal of herself to any 
two men, hand to hand.” 

Lambert, a short, sly, dogged little personage, endeavored to 
account for the error, if such it was — “but he was sure, that at 
starting, there were but three — they must have have had com- 
pany join them since. Did the lieutenant make out the ap- 
pearance of the others ?” 

“ I did,” said the officer in command, “ and, to say truth, they 
do not seem to be of the old fellow’s party. They must have 
come upon him since the night. But how came you, Lambert, 
to neglect sawing the axle? You had time enough when it 
stood in the farmyard last night, and you were about it a full 
hour. The wagon stands as stoutly on its all-fours as the first 
day it was built.” 

“ I did that, sir, and did it, I thought, to the very mark. 1 
calculated to leave enough solid to bear them to the night, when 
in our circuit we should come among them just in time to finish 
the business. The wood is stronger, perhaps, than I took it to 
be, but it won’t hold out longer than to-mon-ow, I’m certain, 
when, if we watch, we can take our way with them.” 

“Well, I hope so, and we must watch them, for it won’t do 
to let the old fellow escape. He has, I know, a matter of three 
or four hundred hard dollars in his possession, to buy lands in 
Mississippi, and it’s a pity to let so piuch good money go out of 
the state.” 

“ But why may we not set upon them now ?” inquired one of 
the youngest of the party. 

“For a very good reason, Briggs — they are armed, ready, 
and nearly equal in number to ourselves ; and though I doubt 
not we should be able to ride over them, yet I am not willing 
to leave one or more of us behind. Besides, if we keep the 
look-out to-morrow, as we shall, we can settle the business 
without any such risk.” 

This being the determination, the robbers, thus disappointed 

14 * 


822 


GUY UlYlilllS. 


of tlieir game, were nevertheless in better humor than might 
have been well expected ; but such men are philosophers, and 
their very recklessness of human life is in some respects the 
result of a due estimate of its vicissitudes. They rode on their 
way laughing at the sturdy bluntness of the old wagoner, which 
their leader, of whom we have already heard under the name 
of Dillon, related to them at large. With a whoop and halloo, 
they cheered the travellers as they rode by, but at some dis- 
tance from, the encampment. The tenants of the encampment, 
thus strangely but fortunately thrown together, having first 
seen that everything was quiet, took their severally assigned 
places, and laid themselves down for repose. The pedler con- 
tenting himself with guessing that “ them ’ere chaps did not 
make no great deal by that speculation.” 


tHR OUTLAWS. 


323 


chapter XXVil. 

THE OUTLAWS. 

It was iu the wildest and least-trodden recesses of the rock 
and forest, that the band of outlaws, of which Rivers was the 
great head and leader, had fixed their place of abode and as- 
semblage. A natural cavity, formed by the juxtaposition of 
two huge rocks, overhung by a third, with some few artificial 
additions, formed for them a cavern, in which — so admirably 
was it overgrown by the surrounding forest, and so finely sit- 
uated among hills and abrupt ridges yielding few inducements 
for travel — they found the most perfect security. 

It is true such a shelter could not long have availed them as 
such, were the adjacent country in the possession of a civilized 
people ; but the near neighborhood of the Cherokees, by keep- 
ing back civilization, was, perhaps, quite as much as the position 
they had chosen, its protection from the scrutiny of many, who 
had already, prompted by their excesses, endeavored, on more 
than one occasion, to find them out. The place was distant 
from the village of Chestatee about ten miles, or perhaps more. 
No highway — no thoroughfare or public road passed in its 
neighborhood, and it had been the policy of the outlaws to 
avoid the use of any vehicle, the traces of which might be fol- 
lowed. There was, besides, but little necessity for its em- 
ployment. The place of counsel and assemblage was not ne- 
cessarily their place of abode, and the several members of the 
band found it more profitable to reside, or keep stations, in the 
adjacent hamlets and stands (for by this^ latter name in those 
regions, the nightly stopping-places of wayfarers are commonly 
designated) where, in most cases, they put on the appearance, 
and in many respects bore the reputation, of staid and sober 
working men. 


GUY RIVERS. 


S‘24 

This arrangement was perhaps the very best for the preJ* 
atojy life they led, as it afforded opportunities for information 
which otherwise must have been lost to them. In this way 
they heard of this or that traveller— his destination — the ob- 
jects he had in view, and the wealth he carried about with 
him. In one of these situations the knowledge of old Snell’s 
journey, and the amount of wealth in his possession, had been 
acquired; and in the person of the worthy stable-boy who 
brought corn to the old fellow’s horses the night before, and 
whom he rewarded with a thrip (the smallest silver coin known 
in the southern currency, the five-cent issue excepted) we might, 
without spectacles, recognise the active fugleman of the outlaws, 
who sawed half through his axle, cleaned his wheels of all their 
grease, and then attempted to rob him the very night after. 

Though thus scattered about, it was not a matter of difficulty 
to call the outlaws together upon an emergency. One or more 
of the most trustworthy among them had only to make a tour" 
over the road, and through the hamlets in which they were 
harbored within the circuit of ten or twenty miles, and as they 
kept usually with rigid punctuality to their several stations, 
they were soon apprized, and off at the first signal. A whisper 
in the ear of the hostler who brought out your horse, or the 
drover who put up the cattle, was enough ; and the absence of 
a colt from pasture, or the missing of a stray young heifer from 
the flock, furnished a sufficient reason to the proprietor for the oc 
casional absence of Tom, Dick, or Harry : who, in the mean- 
while, was, most probably, crying “ stand” to a true man, or cut- 
ting a trunk from a sulkey, or, in mere wantonness, shooting 
down the traveller who had perhaps given him a long chase, yet 
yielded nothing by way of compensation for the labor. 

Dillon, or, to speak more to the card. Lieutenant Dillon, ar- 
rived at the place of assemblage just as the day was breaking 
He was a leader of considerable influence among the outlaws, 
and, next to Rivers, was most popular. Indeed, in certain re- 
spects, he was far more popular; for, though perhaps not so 
adroit in his profession, nor so well fitted for its command, he 
was possessed of many of those qualities which are apt to be 
taking with “ the fierce democratic !” He was a prince of hail 
fellows — was thoroughly versed in low jest and scurvy anec* 


THE OUTLAWS. 


325 


dote — could play at pushpins, and drink at every point in the 
game ; and, strange to say, though always drinking, was never 
_ drunk. Nor, though thus accomplished, and thus prone to these 
accomplishments, did he ever neglect those duties which he as- 
sumed to perform. No indulgence led him away from his post, 
and, on the other hand, no post compelled or constrained him 
into gravity. He was a careless, reckless blade, indifferent 
alike, it would seem, to sun and storm — and making of life a 
circle, that would not inaptly have illustrated the favorite text 
of Sardanapalus. 

He arrived at the cave, as we have said just as the day was 
breaking. A shrill whistle along the ridges of wood and rock 
as he passed them, denoted the various stations of the sentinels, 
as studiously strewed along the paths by which their place of 
refuge might be assailed, as if they were already beleaguered 
by an assailing army. Without pausing to listen to the various 
speeches and inquiries which assailed his ears upon his arrival 
he advanced to the cavern, and was told that the captain had 
been for some time anxiously awaiting his arrival — that he 
had morosely kept the inner recess of the cave, and since his 
return, which had not been until late in the night, had been 
seen but two or three times, and then but for a moment, when 
he had come forth to make inquiries for himself. 

Leaving his men differently disposed, Dillon at once pene- 
trated into the small apartment in which his leader was lodged, 
assured of the propriety of the intrusion, from what had just 
been told him. 

The recess, which was separated from the outer hall by a 
curtain of thick coarse stuff, falling to the floor from a beam, 
the apertures for the reception of which had been chiselled in 
the rock, was dimly illuminated by a single lamp, hanging from 
a chain, which was in turn fastened to a pole that stretched 
directly across the apartment. A small table in the centre of 
the room, covered with a piece of cotton cloth, a few chairs, a 
broken mirror, and on a shelf that stood trimly in the corner, a 
few glasses and decanters, completed the furniture of the 
apartment. 

On the table at which the outlaw sat, lay his pistols — a huge 
and unwieldy, but well-made p^r. A short sword, a dirk, apd 


826 


GUY RIVERS. 


one or two other weapons of similar description, contemplated 
only for hand-to-hand purposes, lay along with them ; and the 
better to complete the picture, now already something outre^ a 
decanter of brandy and tumblers were contiguous. 

Rivers did not observe the slide of the curtain to the apart- 
ment, nor the entrance of Dillon. He was deeply absorbed in 
contemplation ; his head rested heavily upon his two palms, 
while his eyes were deeply fixed upon the now opened minia- 
ture which he had tom from the neck of Lucy Munro, and 
which rested before him. He sighed not — he spoke not, but 
ever and anon, as if perfectly unconscious all the while of what 
he did, he drank from the tumbler of the compounded draught 
that stood before him, hurriedly and desperately, as if to keep 
the strong emotion from choking him. There was in his look 
a bitter agony of expression, indicating a vexed spirit, now 
more strongly than ever at work in a way which had, indeed, 
been one of the primest sources of his miserable life. It was a 
spirit ill at rest with itself — vexed at its own feebleness of ex- 
ecution — its incapacity to attain and acquire the realization 
of its own wild and vague conceptions. His was the ambition 
of one who discovers at every step that nothing can be known, 
yet will not give up the unprofitable pursuit, because, even 
while making the discovery, he still hopes vainly that he may 
yet, in his own person, give the maxim the lie. For ever soar- 
ing to the sun, he was for ever realizing the fine Grecian fable 
of Icarus ; and the sea of disappointment into which he perpet- 
ually fell, with its tumultuous tides and ever-chafing billows, 
bearing him on from whirlpool to whirlpool, for ever battling 
and for ever lost. He was unconscious, as we have said, of the 
entrance and approach of his lieutenant, and words of bitter- 
ness, in soliloquy, fell at brief periods from his lips. — 

“ It is after all the best — ” he mused. “ Despair is the true 
philosophy, since it beget;s indifference. Why should I hope ? 
What prospect is there now, that these eyes, that lip, these 
many graces, and the imperial pride of that expression, which 
looks out like a high soul from the heaven that men talk and 
dream of — what delusion is there now to bid me hope they 
ever can be more to me than they are now ? I care not for 
the world’s ways — nor feel I now the pang of its scorn and its 


THE OUTLAWS. 


327 


outlawry ; yet I would it were not so, that I might, upon a 
field as fair as that of the most successful, assert my claim, and 
woo and win her — not with those childish notes of common- 
place — that sickly cant of sentimental stuff which I despise, 
and which I know she despises no less than I. 

“ Yet, when this field was mine, as I now desire it, what 
more did it avail me 1 Where was the strong sense — the lofty 
reason that should then have conquered with an unobstructed 
force, sweeping all before it, as the flame that rushes through 
the long grass' of the prairies? Gone — prostrate — dumb. 
The fierce passion was upward, and my heart was then more 
an outlaw than I myself am now. 

“ Yet there is one hope — one chance — one path, if not to her 
affections, at least to her. It shall be done, and then, most 
beautiful witch, cold, stern, and to me heartless, as thou hast 
ever been — thou shalt not always triumph. I would that I 
could sleep on this — I would that I could sleep. There is but 
one time of happiness — but one time when the thorn has no 
sting — when the scorn bites not — when the sneer chafes not — 
when the pride and the spirit shrink not — when there is no 
wild passion to make everything a storm and a conflagration 
among the senses — and that is — when one forgets! — I would 
that I could sleep !” 

As he spoke, his head sunk upon the table witli a heavy 
sound, as if unconsciousness had really come with the articu- 
lated wish. He started quickly, however, as now, for the first 
time, the presence of Dillon became obvious, and hun-iedly 
thrusting the portrait into his vest, he turned quickly to the 
intruder, and sternly demanded the occasion of his interruption. 
The lieutenant was prepared, and at once replied to the inter- 
rogatory with the easy, blunt air of one who not only felt that 
he might be confided in, but who was then in the strict per- 
formance of his duties. 

“ I came at your own call, captain. I have just returned 
from the river, and skirting down in that quarter, and was kept 
something later than I looked for ; hearing, on my arrival, that 
you had been inquiring for me, I did not hesitate to present my- 
sent at once, not knowing but the business might be pressing.” 

“ It is pressing,” responded the outlaw, seemingly well satis- 


328 


GUY RIVERS. 


fied witli the tacit apology. “It is pressing, Dillon, and you 
will have little time for rest before starting again. I myself 
have been riding all night, and shall be off in another hour. 
But what have you to report ? What’s in the wind now 

“ I hear but little, sir. There is some talk about a detach- 
ment of the Georgia guard, something like a hundred men, to 
be sent out expressly for our benefit ; but I look upon ^his as a 
mistake. Their eye is rather upon the miners, and the Indian 
gold lands and those who dig it, and not upon those who merely 
take it after it is gathered. I have heard, too, of something 
like a brush betwixt Fullam’s troop and the miners at Tracy’s 
diggings, but no particulars, except that the guard got the worst 
of it.” 

“ On that point I am already advised. That is well for us, 
since it will turn the eye of the authorities in a quarter in which 
W'e have little to do. I had some hand in that scrape myself, and 
set the dogs on with this object ; and it is partly on this matter 
that I would confer with you, since there are some few of our 
men in the village who had large part in it, who must not be 
hazarded, and must yet stay there.” 

“ If the brush was serious, captain, that will be a matter of 
some difficulty ; for of late, there has been so much of our busi^ 
ness done, that government, I believe, has some thought of 
taking it up, and in order to do so without competition, will 
think of putting us down. Uncle Sam and the states, too, are 
quarrelling in the business, and, as I hear, there is like to be 
warm work between them. The Georgians are quite hot on 
the subject, and go where I will, they talk of nothing else than 
hanging the president, the Indians, and all the judges. They 
are brushing up their rifles, and they speak out plain.” 

“ The more sport for us — but this is all idle. ^It will all end 
in talk, and whether it do or not, we, at least, have nothing to 
do with it. But, there is drink — fill — and let us look to bush 
ness before either of us sleep.” 

The lieutenant did as suggested by Rivers, who, rising from 
his seat, continued for some time to pace the apartment, evi 
dently in deep meditation. He suddenly paused, at length, and 
resuming his seat, inquired of Dillon as to the manner in 
which he had been employed through the last few days, 


"THE OUTLAWS. 


329 


A narrati ,n, not necessary to repeat, followed from the officer 
in which the numerous petty details of frontier irregularity 
made up the chief material. Plots and counterplots were rife 
in his story, ai d more than once the outlaw interrupted his 
officer in the hope of abridging the petty particulars of some 
of their attenuated proportions — an aim not always successful, 
since, among the numerous virtues of Lieutenant Dillon, that 
of precision and niceness in his statements must not be omitted 
To this narration, however, though called for by himself, the 
superior yielded but little attention, until he proceed to describe 
the adventure of the night, resulting so unsuccessfully, with the 
emigrating farmer. When he described the persons of the two 
strangers, so unexpectedly lending their aid in defence of the 
traveller, a new interest was awakened in the features and 
manner of his auditor, who here suddenly and with energy 
interrupted him, to make inquiries with regard to their dress 
and appearance, which not a little surprised Dillon, who had 
frequently experienced the aversion of his superior to all seem- 
ingly unnecessary minutiae. Having been satisfied on these 
points, the outlaw rose, and pacing the apartment with slow 
«teps, seemed to meditate some design which the narrative liad 
suggested. Suddenly pausing, at length, as if all the necessary 
lights had shone in upon his deliberations at once, he turned to 
Dillon, who stood in silent waiting, and thus proceeded : — 

“I have it,” said he, half-musingly, “I have it, Dillon — it 
must be so. How far, say you, is it from the place where the 
man — what’s his name — encamped last night?” 

“ Nine or ten mile5, perhaps, or more.” 

“ And you know his route for to-day ?” 

“ There is now but one which he can take, pursuing the route 
which he does.” 

“ And upon that he will not go more than fifteen or twenty 
miles in the day. But not so with him — not so with him. He 
will scarcely be content to move at that pace, and there will be 
no hope in that way to overtake him. 

Rivers spoke in soliloquy, and Dillon, though accustomed to 
many of the mental irregularities of his superior, exhibited 
somethii g like surprise as he looked upon the lowering brows 
and unwonted indecision of the outlaw. 


BSO 


GUY RIVERS. 


“ Of whom does the captain speak V’ was his inquiry. 

“Of whornl — of him — of himT was the rather aorupl 
response of the superior, who seemed to regard the ignorance 
of his lieutenant as to the object in view, with almost as much 
wondei as that worthy entertained at the moment for the 
hallucii.ations of his captain. 

Of whom should I speak — of whom should I think hut the 
one — accursed, fatal and singular, who — ” and he stopped 
short, while his mind, now comprehending the true relationship 
between himself and the person beside him, Avliich, in his 
moody self-examination, he had momentarily forgotten, pro- 
ceeded to his designs with all his Avonted coherence. 

“ I wander, Dillon, and am half-asleep. The fact is, I am 
almost worn out with this unslumbering motion. I have not 
been five hours out of the saddle in the last twenty-four, and it 
requires something more of rest, if I desire to do well what I 
have on hand — what, indeed, we both have on hand.” 

There was something apologetic in the manner, if not in the 
language, of the speaker ; and his words seemed to indicate, if 
possible, an excuse for the incoherence of his address, in the 
physical fatigue which he had undergone — in this Avay to 
divert suspicion from those mental causes of excitement, of 
which, in the present situation, he felt somewhat ashamed. 
Pouring out a glass of liquor, and quaffing it without pause, ho 
motioned to the lieutenant to do the same — a suggestion not 
possible for that person to misunderstand — and then proceeded 
to narrate such portions of the late occurrences in and about 
the village as it was necessary he should* know. He carefully 
suppressed his own agency in any of these events, for, with the 
policy of the ancient, he had learned, at an early period in his 
life, to treat his friend as if he might one day become his enemy ; 
and, so far as such a resolution might consistently be maintained, 
while engaged in such an occupation as his, he rigidly observ^ed 
it. 

. “ The business, Dillon, which I want you to execute, and to 
which you will give all your attention, is difficult and trouble- 
some, and requires ingenuity. Mark Forrester was killed last 
night, as is supposed, in a fray Avith a youth named Colleton, 
like himself a Carol nian. If such is not the opinion yet, I am 


THE OUTLAWS. 


331 


determined sucli shall be the opinion ; and have made arrange- 
ments by which the object will be attained. Of course the 
murderer should be taken, and I have reasons to desire that 
this object too should be attained. It is on this business, then, 
that you are to go. You must be the officer to take him.” 

“ But where is he ? if within reach, you know there is no 
difficulty.” 

“ Hear me ; there is difficulty though he is within reach. 
He is one of the men whom you found with the old farmer you 
would otherwise have attacked last night. There is difficulty, 
for he will light like a wild beast, and stick’ to his ground like 
a rattlesnake ; and, supported by the old fellow whom you found 
him with, he will be able to resist almost any force which you 
could muster on the emergency. The only fear I have is, that 
being well-mounted, he will not keep with the company, but as 
they must needs travel slowly, he will go on and leave them.” 

“ Should it not rather be a source of satisfaction than other- 
wise — will it not put him more completely at our disposal ? 

“ No ; for having so much the start of you, and a good ani- 
mal, he will soon leave all pursuit behind him. There is a plan 
which I have been thinking of, and which will be the very 
thing, if at once acted upon. You know the sheriff, Maxson, 
lives on the same road ; you must take two of the men with 
you, pick fresh and good horses, set off to Maxson’s at once with 
a letter which I shall give you, and he will make you special 
deputies for the occasion of this young man’s aiTCst. I have 
arranged it so that the suspicion shall take the shape of a legal 
warrant, sufficient to authorize his arrest and detention. The 
proof of his offence will be matter of after consideration.” 

“ But will Maxson do this — may he not refuse? You know 
he has been once before threatened with being brought up for 
his leaning toward us, in that affair of the Indian chief, Enaka- 
mon.” 

“He can not — he dare not refuse!” said the outlaw, rising 
impatiently. “ He holds his place and his life at my disposal, 
and he knows it. He will not venture to refuse me 1” 

He has been very scrupulous of late in all his dealings with 
us, you know, and has rather kept out of our way. Besides 
that, ho has been thorough -goitig at several camp-meetings 


332 


GUY RIVERS. 

lately, and, when a man begins to appear over-honest, I think 
it high time he should be looked after by all parties.” 

“ You are right, Dillon, you are right. I should not trust it 
to paper either. I will go myself. But you shall along with 
me, and on the way I will put you in a train for bringing out 
certain prisoners whom it is necessary that we should secure 
before the sitting of the court, and until it is over. They might 
be foolish enough to convict themselves of being more honest 
than their neighbors, and it is but humane to keep them from 
the commission of an impropriety. Give orders for the best 
two of your troop,* and have horses saddled for all four of us. 
We must be on the road.” 

Dillon did as directed, and returned to the conference, which 
was conducted, on the part of his superior, with a degree of 
excitation, mingled with a sharp asperity of manner, something 
unwonted for him in the arranging of any mere matter of busi- 
ness. 

“ Maxson will not refuse us ; if he do, I will hang him by 
my saddle-straps. The scoundrel owes his election to our votes, 
and shall he refuse us what we ask ? He knows his fate too 
well to hesitate. And then, Dillon, wdien you have his com- 
mission for the arrest of this boy, spare not the spur : secure 
him at all hazards of horseflesh or personal inconvenience. He 
will not resist the laws, or anything having their semblance ; 
nor, indeed, has he any reason — ” 

“ No reason, sir ! why, did you not say he had killed FoiTes- 
tcr ?” inquired his companion. 

“ Your memory is sharp, master lieutenant ; I did say, and I 
say so still. But he affects to think not, and I should not be at 
all surprised if he not only deny it to you, but in reality disbe- 
lieve it himself. Have you not heard of men who have learned 
in time to believe the lies of their own invention ? Why not men 
doubt the truth of their own doings ? There are such men, and 
he may be one of them. He may deny stoutly and solemnly 
the charge, but let him not deceive you or baffle your pursuit. 
We shall prove it upon him, and he shall hang, Dillon — ay, 
hang, hang, hang — though it be under her very eyes !” 

It was in this way that, ill the progress of the dialogue which 
took place between the chief and his subordinate^ the rambling 


THE OtJTLAT\S. 


333 


malignity would break through the cooler counsels of the vil- 
lain, and dark glimpses of the mystery of the transaction would 
burst upon the senses of the latter. Rivers had the faculty, 
however, of never exhibiting too much of himself ; and when 
hurried on by a passion seemingly too fierce and furious for 
restraint, he would suddenly curb himself in, while a sharp and 
scornful smile would curl his lips, as if he felt a consciousness, 
not only of his own powers of command, but of his impenetra- 
bility to all analysis. 

The horses being now ready, the outlaw, buckling on his 
pistols, and hiding his dirk in his bosom, threw a huge cloak 
over his shoulders, which fully concealed his person ; and, in 
company with his lieutenant, and two stout men of his band, all 
admirably and freshly mounted, they proceeded to the abode 
of the sheriff. 

This man, connected, though secretly, with Rivers and Munro, 
was indebted to them and the votes which in that region they 
could throw into the boxes, for his elevation to the office which 
he held, and was, as might reasonably have been expected, a 
mere creature under their management. Maxson, of late days, 
however, whether from a reasonable apprehension, increasing 
duly with increasing years, that he might become at last so 
involved in the meshes of those crimes of his colleagues, from 
which, while he was compelled to share the risk, he was denied 
in great part the profit, had grown scrupulous — had avoided as 
much as possible their connexion ; and, the better to strengthen 
himself in the increasing favor of public opinion, had taken 
advantage of all those externals of morality and virtue which, 
unhappily, too frequently conceal qualities at deadly hostility 
with them. He had, in the popular phrase of the country, “ got 
religion and, like the worthy reformers of the Crbmwell era, 
everything which he did, and everything which he said, had 
Scripture for its authority. Psalm-singing commenced and 
ended the day in his house, and graces before meat ani graces 
before sleep, prayers and ablutions, thanksgivings and fastings, 
had so much thinned the animal necessities of his household, 
that a domestic war was the consequence, and the sheriff and 
the sheriff’s lady held separate sway, having equally divided the 
dwelling between them, and ruling each their respective sover- 




Gtrir RivEtis. 

eignties with a most jealous watchfulness. All rights, not 
expressly delegated in the distribution of powers originally, 
were insisted on even to blood; and the arbitration of the 
sword, or rather the poker, once appealed to, most emphatically, 
by tlie sovereign of the gentler sex, had cut oflP the euphonious 
utterance of one of the choicest paraphrases of Sternhold and 
Hopkins in the middle; and by bruising the scull of the re- 
formed and reforming sheriff, had nearly rendered a new. election 
necessary to the repose and well-being of the county in which 
they lived. 

But the worthy convert recovered, to the sore discomfiture 
of his spouse, and to the comfort and rejoicing of all true be- 
lievers. The breach in his head was healed, but that which 
separated his family remained the same — 

“ As rocks that had been rent asunder.” 

They knew the fellowship of man and wife only in so much as 
was absolutely essential to the keeping up of appearances to the 
public eye — ^'a matter ‘ necessary to maintaining her lord in the 
possession of his dignity ; which, as it conferred honor and 
profit, through him, upon her also, it was of necessity a part of 
her policy to continue. 

There had been a brush — a small gust had passed over that 
fair region of domestic harmony — on the very morning upon 
which the outlaw and his party rode up the untrimmed and half- 
overgrown avenue, which led to the house of the writ-server. 
There had been an amiable discussion between the two, as to 
which of them, with propriety, belonged the duty of putting on 
the breeches of their son Tommy, preparatory to his making his 
appearance at the breakfast-table. Some extraneous influence 
had that morning prompted the sheriff to resist the performance 
of a task which had now for some time been imposed upon him, 
and for which, therefore, there was the sanction Df prescription 
and usage. It was an unlucky moment for the assertion of his 
manhood : for, a series of circumstances operating just about 
that time unfavorably upon the mind of his wife, she was in the 
worst possible humor upon which to try experiments. 

She heard the refusal of her liege to do the required duty, 
therefore, with an astonishment, not unmingled with a degree 


THE OUTLAWS. 


335 


of pleasure, as it gave a full excuse for the venting forth upon 
him of those splenetic humors, which, for some time, had been 
growing and gathering in her system. The little sheriff, from 
long attendance on courts and camps, had acquired something 
more, perhaps, of the desire and disposition, than the capacity, 
to make long speeches and longer sermons, in the performance 
of both of which labors, however, he was admirably fortified 
by the technicals of the law, and the Bible phraseology. The 
quarrel had been waged for some time, and poor Tommy, the 
bone of contention, sitting all the while between the contending 
parties in a state of utter nudity, kept up a fine running accom- 
paniment to the full tones of the wranglers, by crying bitterly 
for his breeches. 

For the first time for a long period of years, the lady found 
her powers of tongue fail in the proposed effect upon the under- 
standing of her loving and legal lord ; and knowing hut of one 
other way to assail it, her hand at length grappling with the 
stool, from which she tumbled the hreechless bab^ without 
scruple, seized upon an argument to which her adversary could 
oppose neither text nor technical ; when, fortunately for him, 
the loud rapping of their early visiters at the outer door of the 
dwelling interposed between her wrath and its object, and 
spared the life of the devout sheriff for other occurrences. 
Bundling the naked child out of sight, the mother rushed into 
an inner apartment, shaking the stool in the pale countenance 
of her lord as she retreated, in a manner and with a look which 
said, as plainly as words could say, that this temporary delay 
would only sharpen her appetite for vengeance, and exaggerate 
its terrors when the hour did arrive. It was with a hesitating 
step and wobegone countenance, therefore, that the officer pro- 
ceeded to his parlor, where a no less troublesome, hut less awk- 
ward, trial awaited him. 


386 


GUY RIVEB8. 


CHAPTER XXIX. 

ARREST. 

The high -sheriff made his appearance before his early and 
well-known visiters with a desperate air of composure and un- 
concern, the effort to attain which was readily perceptible to hia 
companions. He could not, in the first place, well get rid of 
those terrors of the domestic world from which their interrup 
tion had timely shielded him ; nor, on the other hand, could He 
feel altogether assured that the visit now j)aid him would not 
result in the exaction of some usurious interest. He had re- 
cently, as we have said, as much through motives of worldly as 
spiritual policy, become an active religionist, in a small way, in 
and about the section of country in which he resided; and 
knowing that his professions were in some sort regarded with no 
small degree of doubt and suspicion by some of his brethren hold- 
ing the same faith, he felt the necessity of playing a close and 
cautious game in all his practices. He might well be apprehen- 
sive, therefore, of the visits of those who never came but as so 
many omens of evil, and whose claims upon, and perfect knowl- 
edge of, his true character, were such, that he felt himself, in 
many respects, most completely at their mercy. 

Rivers did not give much time to preliminaries, but, after a 
few phrases of commonplace, coming directly to the point, he 
stated the business in hand, and demanded the assistance of the 
officer of justice for the arrest of one of its fugitives. There 
were some difficulties of form in the matter, which saved the 
sheriff in part, and which the outlaw had in great part over 
looked. A warrant of arrest was necessary from some officer 
properly empowered to issue one, and a new difficulty was thus 
presented in the way of Colleton’s pui’suit. The sheriff had not 
the slightest objections to making deputies of the persons recom- 


ARREST. 


337 


mended by the outlaw, provided they were fully empowered to 
execute the commands of some judicial officer ; beyond this, the 
scrupulous executioner of justice was unwilling to go ; and hav* 
ing stood out so long in the previous controversy with his spouse, 
it was wonderful what a vast stock of audacious courage he now 
felt himself entitled, and ventured, to manifest. 

“I can not do it, Master Guy — it’s impossible — seeing, in 
the first place, that I ha’n’t any right by the laws to issue any 
warrant, though it’s true, I has to serve them. Then, agin, in 
the next place, ’twont do for another reason that’s jist as good, 
you see. It’s only the other day, Master Guy, that the fear of 
the Lord come upon me, and I got religion ; and now I’ve set 
myself up as a worker in other courts, you see, than those of 
man ; and there be eyes around me that would see, and hearts 
to rejoice at the backslidings of the poor laborer. Howbeit, 
Master Guy, I am not the man to forget old sarvice ; and if it 
be true that this man has been put to death in this manner, 
though I myself can do nothing at this time, I may put you in 
the way — for the sake of old time, and for the sake of justice, 
which requires that the slayer of his brother should also be 
slain — of having your wish.” 

Though something irritated still at the reluctance of his for- 
mer creature to lend himself without scruple to his purposes, 
the outlaw did not hesitate to accept the overture, and to press 
for its immediate accomplishment. He had expostulated with 
the sheriff for some time on the point, and, baffled and denied, 
he was very glad, at the conclusion of the dialogue with that 
worthy, to find that there was even so much of a prospect of 
concert, though falling far short of his original anticipations, 
from that quarter. He was too well aware, also, of the diffi- 
culty in the way of any proceeding without something savoring 
of authority in the matter ; for, from a previous and rather cor- 
rect estimate of Colleton’s character, he well foresaw that, 
knowing his enemy, he would fight to the last against an ar- 
rest ; which, under the forms of law and with the sanction of a 
known officer, he would otherwise readily recognise and submit 
to. Seizing, therefore, upon the speech of the sheriff. Rivers 
eagerly availed himself of its opening to obtain those advanta- 
ges ill the affair, of which, from the canting spirit and newly* 

15 


388 


'GUY RIVERS. 


awakened morality of liis late coadjutor, lie had utterly beguB 
to despair. He proceeded to reply to the suggestion as fol- 
loAvs : — 

“ I suppose, I must content myself, Maxson, with doing in 
this thing as you say, though really I see not why you should 
now be so particular, for there are not ten men in the county 
M'ho are able to determine upon any of your powers, or wlic 
would venture to measure their extent. Let us hear your plan, 
and I suppose it will be effectual in our object, and this is all 1 
want. All I desire is, that our people, you know, should not 
be iliurdered by strangers without rhyme or reason.” 

The sheriff knew well the hypocrisy of the sentiment with 
which Eivers concluded, but made no remark. A single smile 
testified his knowledge of the nature of his colleague, and indi- 
cated his suspicion of a deeper and different motive for this new 
activity. Approaching the outlaw closely, he asked, in a half 
whisper : — 

“Who was the witness of the murder — who could swear for 
the magisti'ate ? You must get somebody to do that.” 

This was another point which Rivers, in his impatience, had 
lot thought to consider. But fruitful in expedient, his fertile 
mind suggested that ground of suspicion was all that the law re- 
quired for apprehension at least, and having already arranged 
that the body of the murdered man should be found under cer- 
tain circumstances, he contented himself with procuring commis- 
sions, as deputies, for his two officers, and posted away to the 
village. 

Here, as he anticipated, the intelligence had already been re- 
ceived — the body of Forrester had been found, and sufficient 
gi'ound for suspicion to authorize a warrant was recognised in the 
dirk of the youth, which, smeared with blood as it had been left by 
Rivers, had been found upon the body. Rivers had but little to do. 
He contrived, however, to do nothing himself. The warrant of 
Pippin, as magistrate, was procured, and the two officers commis- 
sioned by the sheriff went off in pursuit of the supposed murderer, 
against whom the indignation of all the village was sufficiently 
heightened by the recollection of the close intimacy existing 
between Ralph and Forrester, and the nobly characteristic man- 
ner in which the lattfef had Voltiiiteered to do his fighting with 


ARREST. 


339 


Rivers. The murdered man Lad, independent of this, no small 
popularity of Lis own, wLicL brought out for him a warm and 
active sympathy highly creditable to his memory. Old Allen, 
too, suffered deeply, not less on his own than his daughter’s ac- 
count. She, poor girl, had few words, and her sorrow, silent, if 
not tearless, was confined to the solitude of her own chamber. 

In the prosecution of the affair against Ralph, there was but 
one person whose testimony could have availed him, and that 
person was Lucy Munro. As the chief particular in evidence, 
and that which established the strong leading presumption 
against him, consisted in the discovery of his dagger alongside 
the body of the murdered man, and covered with his blood ; it 
was evident that she who could prove the loss of the dagger by 
the youth, and its finding by . Munro, prior to the event, and un- 
accompanied by any tokens of crime, would not only be able to 
free the person suspected, at least from this point of suspicion, 
but would be enabled to place its burden elsewhere, and with 
the most conclusive distinctness. 

This was a dilemma which Rivers and Munro did not fail to 
consider. The private deliberation, for an hour, of the two con- 
spirators, determined upon the course which for mutual safety they 
were required t^ pursue ; and Munro gave his niece due notice to 
prepare for an immediate departure with her aunt and himself, on 
some plausible pretence, to another portion of the country. 

To such a suggestion, as Lucy knew not the object, she of- 
fered no objection ; and a secret departure was effected of the 
three, who, after a lonely ride of several hours through a route 
circuitously chosen to mislead, were safely brought to the shel- 
tered and rocky abiding-place of the robbers, as we have al- 
ready described it. Marks of its offensive features, however, 
had been so modified as not to occasion much alarm. The 
weapons of war had been studiously put out of sight, and apart- 
ments, distinct from those we have seen, .partly the work of na- 
ture, and partly of man, were assigned for the accommodation of 
the new-comers. The outlaws had their instructions, and did 
not appear, though lurking and watching around in close and 
constant neighborhood. 

Nor, in this particular alone, had the guilty parties made due 
provision for their future safety^ The affair of the guard had 


34C 


GUY RIVERS. 


made more stir than liad been anticipated in the rash moment 
which had seen its consummation; and their advices warned 
tliem of the approach of a much larger force of state troops, 
obedient to the direction of the district-attorney, than they 
could well contend with. They detennined, therefore, pru- 
dently for themselves, to keep as much out of the way of de- 
tection as they could ; and to avoid those risks upon which a 
previous conference had partially persuaded them to adventure. 
They were also apprized of the greater excitement attending 
the fate of Fon-ester, than could possibly have followed the 
death, in his place, of the contemplated victim ; and, adopting 
a habit of caution, heretofore but little considered in that re- 
gion, they prepared for all hazards, and, at the same time, tacit- 
ly detennined upon the suspension. of their numerous atrocities 
— at least, while a controlling force was in the neighborhood. 
Previous impunity had led them so far, that at length the 
neighboring country was aroused, and all the better classes, 
taking advantage of the excitement, grew bolder in the expres- 
sion of their anger against those' who had beset them so long. 
The sheriff, Maxson, had been something tutored by these in- 
fluences, or, it had been fair to surmise that his scruples would 
have been less difficult to overcome. 

In the meantime, the pursuit of Ralph Colleton, as the mur- 
derer of Forrester, had been hotly urged by the officers. The 
pursuers knew the route, and having the control of new horse? 
as they proceeded, at frequent intervals, gained of course al 
every step upon the unconscious travellers. We have seen the 
latter retiring to repose at a late hour of the night. Under the 
several fatigues which all parties had undergone, it is not strange 
that the sun should have arisen some little time before those who 
had not retired quite so early as himself. At a moderately late 
hour they breakfasted together — the family of the wagoner, and 
Ralph, and our old friend the pedler. Pursuing the same route, 
the two latter, after the repast, separated, with many acknowl- 
edgments on both sides, from the emigrating party, and pursued 
their v/ay together. 

On their road, Bunce gave the youth a long and particular 
account of all those circumstances at the village-inn by which 
he had been depiived of his chattels, and congratulated himself 


ARRIS'! . 


alt 

not a litOe on the adroit thought which had determined him to 
retain the good steed of the Lawyer Pippin in lieu of his losses. 
He spoke of it as quite a clever and creditable performance, and 
one as fully deserving the golden honors of the medal as many 
of those doings which are so rewarded. 

On this point his companion said little ; and though he could 
not altogether comprehend the propriety of the pedler’s morals, 
he certainly did not see but that the necessity and pressing dan- 
ger of his situation somewhat sanctioned the deceit. He sug- 
gested this idea to Bunce, hut when he came to talk of the pro- 
priety of returning the animal the moment he was fairly in 
safety, the speculator failed entirely to perceive the moral of 
his philosophy. 

The sheriffs officers came upon the wagoner a few hours after 
the two had separated from him. The intelligence received from 
him quickened their pace, and toward noon they descried our 
travellers ascending a hill a few hundred yards in advance of 
them. A repeated application of the spur brought them to- 
gether, and, as had been anticipated by Rivers, Ralph offered 
not the slightest objeetion, when once satisfied of the legality 
of his arrest, to becoming their prisoner. But the consternation 
of Bunco was inexpressible. He endeavored to shelter himself 
in the adjoining woods, and was quietly edging his steed into 
the covert for that purpose, on the first alarm, hut was not per- 
mitted by the sharp eyes and ready unscrupulosity of the rob- 
ber representatives of the law. They had no warrant, it is 
true, for the arrest of any other person than “ the said Ralph 
Colleton” — but the unlucky color of Pippin’s horse, and their 
perfect knowledge of the animal, readily identifying him, did 
the business for the pedler. 

Under the custody of the laws, therefore, we behold the youth 
retracing his ground, horror-stricken at the death of Forrester — 
indignant at the suspicions entertained of himself as the mur- 
derer, but sanguine of the result, and firm and fearless as ever. 
Not so Bunce; there were cruel visions in his sight of seven- 
sided pine-rails — fierce regulators — Lynch’s law, and all that 
rude and terrible sort of punishment, which is studiously put in 
force in those regions for the enjoyment of evil-doers. The next 
day found them both securel}'' locked up in the common jail of 
Cliestatee. 


GUY ftTVFJig 


342 


CHAPTER XXX. 

CHUB WILLIAMS. 

Thk yoang mind of Colleton,, excursive as it was, could 
scarcely realize to itself the strange and rapidly-succeeding 
changes of the last few days. Self-exiled from the dwelling in 
(vhich so much of his heart and hope had been stored up — a 
wanderer among the wandering — assaulted by ruffians — the 
witness of their crimes — pursued by the officers of justice, and 
linalljllthe tenant of a prison, as a criminal himself! After the 
first emotions of astonishment and vexation had subsided — ig- 
norant of the result of this last adventur e, and preparing for the 
worst — he called for pen and paper, and briefly, to his uncle, 
recounted his adventures, as we have already related them, par- 
tially acknowledging his precipitance in departing from his 
house, but substantially insisting upon the propriety of those 
grounds which had made him do so. 

To Edith, what could he say ? Nothing — everything. His 
letter to her, enclosed in that to her uncle, was just such as 
might be expected from one with a character such as we have 
endeavored to describe — that of the genuine aristocrat of Caro- 
iina — gentle, but firm — soothing, but manly — truly, but lofti- 
y affectionate — the rock touched, if not softened by the sun- 
oeam ; warm and impetuous, but generally just in his emotions 
— liberal in his usual estimate of mankind, and generous, to a 
fault, in all his associations; — ignorant of any value in money, 
unless for high purposes — as subservient to taste and civiliza- 
tion — a graceful humanity and an honorable affection. 

With a tenderness the most respectful, Ralph reiterated his 
love — prayed for her prayers — frankly admitted his error in 
his abrupt flight, and freely promised atonement as soon as he 
should he freed from his difficulties ; an event which, in speak 


CHUB WiLLtAMS. 


m 

iug to her, he doubted not. This duty over, his mind grew 
somewhat relieved, and, despatching a note hy the jailer’s dep- 
uty to the lawyer Pippin, he desired immediately to see him. 

Pippin had looked for such an invitation, and was already in 
attendance. His regrets were prodigious, but his gratification 
not less, as it would give him an opportunity, for some time 
desired, for serving so excellent a gentleman. But the lawyer 
shook his head with most professional uncertainty at every step 
of his own narration of the case, and soon convinced Ralph that 
he really stood in a very awkward predicament. He described 
the situation of the body of Forrester when found ; the bloody 
dirk which lay beside it, having the initials of his name plainly 
carved upon it ; his midnight flight ; his close companionship 
with Forrester on the evening of the night in which he had 
been murdered — a fact proved by old Allen and his family j 
the intimate freedom with which Forrester had been known to 
confide his purposes to the youth, deducible from the joint call 
which they had made upon the sweetheart of the former ; and 
many other smaller details, unimportant in themselves, but 
linked together with the rest of the particulars, strengthening 
the chain of circumstances against him to a degree which ren- 
dered it improbable that he should escape conviction. 

Pippin sought, however, to console his client, and, after tho 
first development of particulars, the natural buoyancy of the 
youth returned. He was not disposed readily to despair, and 
his courage and confidence rose with the pressure of events. 
He entered into a plain story of all the particulars of his flight 
— the instrumentality of Miss Munro in that transaction, and 
which she could explain, in such a manner as to do away with 
any unfavorable impression which that circumstance, of itself, 
might create. Touching the dagger, he could say nothing. 
He had discovered its loss, but knew not at what time he had 
lost it. The manner in which it had been found was, of course, 
fatal, unless the fact which he alleged of its loss could be estab- 
lished ; and of this the consulting parties saw nc hope. Still, 
they did not despair, but proceeded to the task of preparing 
the defence for the day of trial, which was at hand. The tech- 
nical portions of the case were managed by the lawyer, who 
issued his subpoenas — made voluminous notes — wrote out tho 


844 


GUY RIVERS. 


exordium of bis speech — and sat up all night committing it to 
memory. 

Having done all that the occasion called for in his interview 
with Ralph, the lawyer proceeded to visit, uncalled-for, one 
whom he considered a far greater criminal than his client. The 
cell to v/hich the luckless pedler, Bunce, had been carried, was 
not far from that of the foimer, and the rapid step of the lawyer 
soon overcame the distance between. 

Never was man seemingly so glad to see his neighbor as 
was Bunce, on this occasion, to look upon Pippin. His joy 
found words of the most honeyed description for his visiter, and 
his delight was truly infectious. The lawyer was delighted too, 
hut his satisfaction was of a far different origin. He had now 
some prospect of getting hack his favorite steed — that fine ani- 
mal, described by him elsewhere to the pedler, as docile as the 
dog, and fleet as the deer. He had heard of the safety of his 
horse, and his anger with the pedler had undergone some abate- 
ment ; but, with the consciousness of power common to inferior 
minds, came a strong desire for its use. He knew that the ped- 
ler had been guilty in a legal sense of no crime, and could only 
be liable in a civil action for his breach of trust. But he sus- 
pected that the dealer in wares was ignorant of the advantageous 
distinctions in morals which the law had made, and consequently 
amused himself with playing upon the fears of the offender. Ho 
put on a countenance of much commiseration, and, drawing a 
long sigh, regretted the necessity which had brought him to 
prepare the mind of his old friend for the last terrors of justice. 

But Bunce was not a man easily frightened. As he phrased 
it himself, he had ^been quite too long knocking about among - 
men to be scared by shadows, and replied stoutly — though re- 
ally with some internal misgivings — to the lachrymalities of 
the learned counsel. He gave him to understand that, if he 
got into difficulty, he knew some other persons whom his con- 
fessions would make uncomfortable ; and hinted pretty directly 
at certain practices of a certain professional gentleman, which, 
though the pedler knew nothing of the technical significant 
might yet come under the head of barratry, and so forth. 

The lawyer was the more timid man of the two, and found it 
necessary to pare down his potency. He soon found it profita- 


CHUB WILLIAMS. 


846 


ble to let the xoatter rest, and having made arrangements with 
the pedler for bringing suit for damages against two of the 
neighboring farmers concerned in the demolition of his wares — 
who, happening to he less guilty than their accessaries, had 
ventured to remain in the country — Bunce found no dijfiSculty 
in making his way out of the prison. There had been no right 
originally to detain him ; but the consciousness of guilt, and 
some other ugly misgivings, had so relaxed the nerves of the 
tradesman, that he had never thought to inquire if his name 
were included in the warrant of arrest. It is probable that his 
courage and confidence would have been far less than they ap- 
pear at present, had not Pippin assured him that the regulators 
were no longer to be feared ; that the judge had arrived ; that 
the grand-jury had found bills against several of the offenders, 
and were still engaged in their labors ; that a detachment of 
the state military had been ordered to the station ; and that 
things looked as civil as it was altogether possible for such war- 
like exhibition to allow. It is surprising to think how fear- 
lessly uncompromising was the conduct of Bunce uuder this new 
condition of affairs. 

But the pedler, in his own release from custody, was not for- 
getful of his less-fortunate companion. He was a frequent vis- 
iter in the dungeon of Ralph Colleton ; bore all messages be- 
tween the prisoner and his counsel ; and contributed, by his 
shrewd knowledge of human kind, not a little to the material 
out of which his defence was to be made. 

He suggested the suspicion, never before entertained by the 
youth, or entertained for a moment only, that his present arrest 
was the result of a scheme purposely laid with a reference to 
this end ; and did not scruple to charge upon Rivers the entire 
management of the matter. 

Ralph could only narrate what he knew of the malignant 
hatred of the outlaw to himself — another fact which none but 
Lucy Munro could establish. Her evidence, however, would 
only prove Rivers to have meditated one crime ; it would not 
free him from the imputation of having committed another. 
Still, so much was important, and casualties were to be relied 
upon for the rest 

But what was the horror of all parties when it was knowu 
16 * 


846 


GUY RIVKRS. 


that neither Lucy nor any of the landlord’s family were to ba 
found ! The process of subpoena was returned, and the general 
opinion was, that alarmed at the approach of the military in 
such force, and confident that his agency in the late transac- 
tions could not long remain concealed in the possession of so 
many, though guilty like himself, Munro had fled to the west. 

The mental agony of the youth, when thus informed, can not 
well be conceived. He was, for a time, utterly prostrate, and 
gave himself up to despair. The entreaties of the pedler, and 
the counsels and exhortings of the lawyer, failed equally to 
enliven him ; and they had almost come to adopt his gloomy 
resignation, when, as he sat on his low bench, v/ith head droop- 
ing on his hand, a solitary glance of sunshine fell through the 
barred window — the only one assigned to his cell. 

The smile of God himself that solitary ray appeared to the 
diseased spirit of the youth, and he grew strong in an instant. 
Talk of the lessons of the learned, and the reasonings of the 
sage! — a vagrant breeze, a rippling water, a glance of the 
sweet sunlight, have more of consolation in them for the sad 
heart than all the pleadings of philosophy. They bring the 
missives of a higher teacher. 

Bunce was an active coadjutor v/ith the lawyer in this mel- 
ancholy case. He made all inquiries — he went everywhere. 
He searched in all places, and spared no labor; but at length 
despaired. Nothing could be elicited by his inquiries, and he 
ceased to hope himself, and ceased to persuade Ralph into hope. 
The lawyer shook his head in reply to all questions, and put on 
a look of mystery which is the safety-valve to all swollen pre- 
tenders. 

In this state of affairs, taking the horse of the youth, with a 
last effort at discoveries, Bunce rode forth into the surrounding 
country. He had heretofore taken all the common routes, to 
which, in his previous intercourse with the people, he had been 
accustomed ; he now determined to strike into a path scarcely 
perceptible, and one which he never remembered to have seen 
before. He followed, mile after mile, its sinuosities. It was a 
wild, and, seemingly, an untrodden region. The hills shot up 
jaggedly from the plain around him the fissures were rude 
and steep— -more like emhrasurcsj blown out by sudden power 


CaUB WILLIAMS. 


347 


from the solid rock. Where the forest appeared, it was deuse 
and intricate — abounding in brush and underwood; where it 
was deficient, the blasted heath chosen by the witches in Mac- 
beth would have been no unfit similitude. 

Hopeless of human presence in this dreary region, the pedler 
yet rode on, as if to dissipate the unpleasant thoughts, following 
upon his frequent disappointment. Suddenly, however, a turn 
in the winding path brought him in contact with a strange- 
looking figure, not more than five feet in height, neither boy 
noi' man, uncouthly habited, and seemingly one to whom all 
converse but that of the trees and rocks, during his whole life, 
had been unfamiliar. 

The reader has already heard something of the Cherokee 
pony — it was upon one of these animals he rode. They are a 
small, but compactly made and hardy creature — of great forti- 
tude, stubborn endurance, and an activity, which, in the travel 
of day after day, will seldom subside from the gallop. It was 
the increasing demand for these animals that had originally 
brought into existence and exercise a company, which, by a 
transition far from uncommon, passed readily from the plunder- 
Lg of horses to the cutting of throats and purses; scarcely 
discriminating in their reckless rapacity between the several 
degrees of crime in which such a practice involved them. 

Though somewhat uncouth in appearance, the new-comer 
seemed decidedly harmless — nay, almost idiotic in appearance. 
His smile was pleasant, though illuminating features of the 
ruggedest description, and the tones of his voice were even 
musical in the ears of the pedler, to whom any voice would 
probably have seemed so in that gloomy region. He very 
sociably addressed Bunce in the patois of that section ; and the 
ceremonial of introduction, without delay or difficulty, was 
overcome duly on both sides. In the southern wilderness, 
deed, it does not call for much formality, nor does a strict 
ytherence to the received rules of etiquette become at ali.neces- 
sary, to make the traveller “ hail fellow, well met.” Anything 
in that quarter, savoring of reserve or stiffness, is punished with 
decided hostility or openly-avowed contempt ; and, in the more 
rude regions, the refusal to partake in the very social employ- 
ments of wrestling or whiskey-drinking, has brought the scrupu 


848 


GtJY UIVERS. 


lous persouage to the more questionable enjoyments of a regU* 
lar goaging match and fight. A demure habit is the most 
unpopular among all classes. Freedom of manner, on the other 
hand, obtains confidence readily, and the heart is won, at once, 
by an off-handed familiarity of demeanor, which fails to recog- 
nise any inequalities in human condition. The society and the 
continued presence of Nature, as it were, in her own peculiar 
abode, put aside all merely conventional distinctions, and men 
meet upon a common footing. Thus, even when perfect stran- 
gers to one another, after the usual preliminaries of “ how are 
you, friend,” or “ strannger V* — “ wkar from V* — “ wkar going V* 
— “ fair” or “ foul weather” — as the case may be — the acquaint- 
ance is established, and familiarity well begun. Such was the 
case ill the present instance. Bunce knew the people well, and 
exhibited his most unreluctant manner. The horses of the two, 
in like manner with their masters, made similar overtures ; and, 
in a little while, their necks were drawn in parallel lines to- 
gether 

Bunce was less communicative, however, than the stranger 
Still his head and heart, alike, were full, and he talked more 
freely than was altogether consistent with his Yankee character 
He told of Ralph’s predicament, and the clown sympathized 
he narrated the quest which had brought him forth, and of his 
heretofore unrewarded labors ; concluded with naming the en- 
suing Monday as the day of the youth’s trial, when, if nothing 
in the meantime could be discovered of the true criminal — for 
the pedler never for a moment doubted that Ralph was innocent 
— he “ mortally feared things would go agin him.” 

“ That will be hard, too — a mighty tough difficulty, now, 
strannger — to be hanged for other folks’ doings. But, I reckon, 
he’ll have to make up his mind to it.” 

“ Oh, no ! don’t say so, now, my friend, I beg you. What 
makes you think so 1” said the anxious pedler. 

“ Why, only from what I ^eer*d you say. You said so you/, 
.self, and I believed it as if I had seed it,” was the reply of the 
simple countryman. 

“ Oh, yes. It’s but a poor chance witli him now, I guess. 
I’d a notion tha< I could find out some little particular, you 

Bee — ” 


CHUB WILLIAMS. 


310 


“ No, I don’t see.” 

** To be sure you don’t, but that’s my say. Everybody has 
a say, you know.” 

No, I don’t know.” 

“ To be sure, of course you don’t know, but that’s what I tell 
you. Now you must know — ” 

“ Don’t say must to me, strannger, if you want that we shall 
keep hands off. I don’t let any man say must to me.” 

“No harm, my friend — I didn’t mean no harm,” said the 
woiTied pedler, not knowing what to make of his acquaintance, 
who spoke shrewdly at times, but occasionally in a speech, 
which awakened the doubts of the pedler as to the safety of 
his wits. Avoiding all circumlocution of phrase, and dropping 
the “ you sees,” and “ you knows” from his narration, he pro- 
ceeded to state his agency in procuring testimony for the youth, 
and of the ill-success which had hitherto attended him. At 
length, in the course of his story, which he contrived to tell 
with as much caution as came within the scope of his educa- 
tion, he happened to speak of Lucy Munro ; but had scarcely 
mentioned her name when his queer companion interrupted 
him : — 

“Look you, strannger. I’ll lick you now, off-hand, if you 
don’t put Miss for a handle to the gal’s name. She’s Miss 
Lucy. Don’t I know her, and han’t I seen her, and isn’t it I, 
Chub Williams, as they calls me, that loves the very airth she 
treads ?” 

“You know Miss Lucyl” inquired the pedler, enraptured 
even at this moderate discovery, though carefully coupling the 
prefix to her name while giving it utterance — “now, do you 
know Miss Lucy, friend, and will you tell me where I can find 
her?” 

“ Do you think I will, and you may be looking arter her too \ 
/Drot my old hat, strannger, but I do itch to git at you.’ 

“ Oh, now, Mr. Williams — ” 

“ I won’t answer to that name. Call me Chub Williams, if 
you wants to be perlite. Mother always calls me Chub, and 
that’s the reason I like it.” 

“Well, Chub,” — said the other, quite paternally — “I assure 
you I don’t love Miss Munro — and — ” 


350 


GUY RI7ERS« 


“What! you don’t love Miss liiicy. Why, everybody oughl 
to love her. Now, if you don’t love her. I’ll hammer you, 
strannger, offhand.” 

The poor pedler professed a proper sort of love for the young 
lady — not exactly such as would seek her for a wife, however, 
and succeeded in satisfying, after a while, the scruples of one 
who, in addition to deformity, he also discovered to labor under 
the more serious curse of partial idiocy. Having done this, and 
flattered, in sundry other ways, the peculiarities of his compan 
ion, he pursued his other point with laudable pertinacity. 

He at length got from Chub his own history : how he had 
run into the woods with his mother, who had suffered from the 
ill-treatment of her husband : how, with his own industry, he 
had sustained her wants, and supplied her with all the comforts 
which a long period had required ; and how, dying at length, 
she had left him — the forest boy — alone, to pursue "those toils 
which heretofore had an object, while she yielded him in return 
for them society and sympathy. These particulars, got from 
him in a manner the most desultory, were made to preface the 
more important parts of the narrative. 

It appears that his harmlessness had kept him undisturbed, 
even by the wild marauders of that region, and that he still 
continued to procure a narrow livelihood by his woodland labors, 
and sought no association with that humanity which, though 
among fellow-creatures, would still have lacked of fellowship 
for him. In the transfer of Lucy from the village to the shelter 
of the outlaws, he had obtained a glimpse of her person and 
form, and had ever since been prying in the neighborhood for a 
second and similar enjoyment. He now made known to the 
pedler her place of concealment, which he had, some time bjforc 
this event, himself discovered; but which, through dread of 
Rivers, for whom he seemed to entertain "an h abitual fear, he 
had never ventured to penetrate. 

“ Well, I must see her,” exclaimed Bunce. “ I a’n’t afraid, 
’cause you see, Mr. Williams — Chub, I mean, it’s only justice, 
and to save the poor young gentleman’s life. I’m sure I oughtn’t 
to be afraid, and no more I a’n’t. Won’t you go there with me. 
Chub 1” 

“Can’t think of it, strannger. Guy is a dark man, and 


CHVl WILLIAMS. 351 

mother said I must keep away Avheu be rode in the woods. 
Guy don’t talk — he shoots.” 

The pedler made sundry efforts to procure a companion for 
his adventure ; but finding it vain, and determined to do right, 
he grew more resolute with the necessity, and, contenting him- 
self with claiming the guidance of Chub, he went boldly on the 
path. Having reached a certain point in the woods, after a 
very circuitous departure from the main track, the guide pointed 
out to the pedler a long and rude ledge of rocks, so rude, so 
wild, that none could have ever conjectured to find them the 
abode of anything but the serpent and the wolf. But there, 
according to the idiot, was Lucy Munro concealed. Chub gave 
the pedler his directions, then alighting from his nag, which he 
concealed in a clump of neighboring bmsh, hastily and with the 
agility of a monkey ran up a neighboring tree which overhung 
the prospect. 

Bunce, left alone, grew somewhat staggered with his fears. 
He now half-repented of the self-imposed adventure ; wondered 
at his own rash humanity, and might perhaps have utterly for- 
borne the trial, but for a single consideration. His pride was 
concerned, that the deformed Chub should not have occasion to 
laugh at his weakness. Descending, therefore, from his horse, 
he fastened him to the hanging branch of a neighboring tree, 
and with something of desperate defiance in his manner, reso- 
lutely advanced to the silent and forbidding mass of rocks, 
which rose up so sullenly around him. In another moment, and 
he was lost to sight in the gloomy shadow of the entrance- 
passage pointed out to him by the half-witted, but not alto 
gethej ignorant dwarf. 


352 


GUY BIVEKS. 


CHAPTER XXXI. 

'I HE ROCK CASTLE OF THE ROBBERS. 

Br r the preparations of Bunce had been foreseen and provided 
for by those most deeply interested in bis progress ; and scarcely 
bad the worthy tradesman effected bis entrance fairly into the 
forbidden territory, when be felt himself grappled from behind. 
He struggled with an energy, due as much to the sudden terror 
as to any exercise of the free will ; but be struggled in vain. 
The arms that were fastened about his own bound them down 
with a grasp of steel ; and after a few moments of desperate 
effort, accompanied with one or two exclamations, half-surprise, 
half-expostulation, of “ Hello, friend, what do you mean V* and 
“ I say, now, friend, you’d better have done — ” the struggle 
ceased, and be lay supine in the bold of the unseen persons who 
bad secured him. 

These persons be could not then discern ; the passage was 
cavernously dark, and bad evidently been as much the work of 
nature as of art. A handkerchief was fastened about bis eyes, 
and be felt himself carried on the shoulders of those who made 
nothing of the burden. After the progress of several minutes, 
ii. hich the anxiety natural to his situation led Bunce into 
frec|uent exclamations and entreaties, he was set down, the 
bandage was removed from his eyes, and he was once more 
permitted their free exercise. 

To his great wonder, however, nothing but women, of all 
sizes and ages, met his sight. In vain did he look around for 
the men who brought him. They were no longer to be seen, 
and so silent had been their passage out, that the unfortunate 
pedler was compelled to satisfy himself with the belief that per- 
^os of the gentler sex had been in truth his captors. 


tSE ROCK CASTLE OF THE ROBBERS. 353 

Had he, indeed, given up the struggle so easily ? The thought 
was mortifying enough ; and yet, when he looked around him, 
he grew more satisfied with his own efforts at resistance. He 
had never seen such strongly-built women in his life : scarcely 
one of them hut could easily have overthrown him, without 
stratagem, in single combat. The faces of many of them were 
familiar to him; but where had he seen them before? His 
memory failed him utterly, and he gave himself up to his be- 
wilderment. 

He looked around, and the scene was well calculated to affect 
a nervous mind. It was a fit scene for the painter of the super- 
natural. The small apartment in which they were, was formed 
in great part from the natural rock ; where a fissure presented 
itself, a huge pine-tree, overthrown so as to fill the vacuity, 
completed what nature had left undone ; and, bating .the one or 
two rude cavities left here and there in the sides — themselves 
so covered as to lie hidden from all without — there was all the 
compactness of a regularly-constructed dwelling. A single and 
small lamp, pendent from a beam that hung over the room, gave 
a feeble light, which, taken in connection with that borrowed 
from without, served only to make visible the dark indistinct of 
the place. With something dramatic in their taste, the old 
women had dressed themselves in sombre habiliments, accord- 
ing to the general aspect of all things around them ; and, as the 
unfortunate pedler continued to gaze in wonderment, his fear 
grew with every progressive step in his observation. One by 
one, however, the old women commenced stirring, and, as they 
moved, now before and now behind him — his eyes following 
them on every side — he at length discovered, amid the group, 
the small and delicate form of the very being for whom he 
sought. 

There, indeed, were Lucy Munro and her aunt, holding a 
passive character in the strange assembly. This was encoura- 
ging ; and Bunce, forgetting his wonder in the satisfaction which 
such a prospect afforded him, endeavored to force his way for- 
ward to them, when a salutary twitch of the arm from one of 
the beldam troop, by tumbling him backward upon the floor of 
the cavern, brought him again to a consideration of his predica- 
ment. He could not be restrained from speech, however — 


354 


GUY RIVERS. 


though, as he spoke, the old women saluted his face on all hands 
with strokes from brushes of fern, which occasioned him no small 
inconvenience. But he had gone too far now to recede ; and, 
in a broken manner — broken as much by his own hurry and 
vehemence as by the interruptions to which he was subjected 

— he contrived to say enough to Lucy of the situation of Colle- 
ton, to revive in her an interest of the most painful character. 
She rushed forward, and was about to ask more from the be- 
leaguered pedler; hut it was not the policy of those having 
both of them in charge to permit such a proceeding. One of 
the stoutest of the old women now came prominently upon the 
scene, and, with a rough voice, which it is not difficult to recog 
nise as that of Munro, commanded the young girl away, and gave 
her in charge to two attendants. But she struggled still to hear, 
and Bunce all the while speaking, she was enabled to gather most 
of the particulars in his narration before her removal was effected. 

The mummery now ceased, -and Bunce having been carried 
elsewhere, the maskers resumed their native apparel, having 
thrown aside that which had been put on for a distinct purpose. 
The pedler, in another and more secure department of the rob- 
bers’ hiding-place, was solaced with the prospect of a long and 
dark imprisonment. 

In the meantime, our little friend Chub Williams had been 
made to undergo his own distinct punishment for his share in 
the adventure. No sooner had Bunce been laid by the heels, 
than Bivers, who had directed the whole, advanced from the 
shelter of the cave, in company with his lieutenant, Dillon, both 
armed with rifles, and, without saying a word, singling out the 
tree on which Chub had perched himself, took deliberate aim 
at the head of the unfortunate urchin. He saw the danger in 
an instant, and his first words were characteristic: “Now don’t 

— don’t, now, I tell you, Mr. Guy — you may hit Chub !” 

“ Come down, then, you rascal !” was the reply, as, with a 
laugh, lowering the weapon, he awaited the descent of the spy, 
“ And now, Bur, what have you to say that I shouldn’t wear 
out a hickory or two upon you ?” 

“ My name ain’t Bur, Mr, Guy ; my name is Chub, and I 
don’t like to be called out of my name. Mother always called 
me Chub.” 


THE ROCK CASTLE OF THE ROBBERS. 855 

“Well, Chub — since you like it best, though at best a bur — 
what were you doing in that tree ? How dare you spy into my 
dwelling, and send other people there ? Speak, or I’ll skin you 
alive !” 

“How, don’t, Mr. Guy ! Don’t, I beg you ! ’Taint right to 
talk so, and I don’t like it! — But is that your dwelling, Mr. 
Guy, in truth ? — you really live in it, all the year round ? How, 
you don’t, do you ?” 

Tlie outlaw had no fierceness when contemplating the object 
before him. Strange nature ! He seemed to regard the deform- 
ities of mind and body, in the outcast under his eyes, as some- 
thing kindred. Was there anything like sympathy in such a 
feeling ? or was it rather that perversity of temper which some- 
times seems to cast an ennobling feature over violence, and to 
afford here and there, a touch of that moral sunshine which can 
now and then give an almost redeeming expression to the coun- 
tenance of vice itself 1 He contemplated the idiot for a few mo- 
ments with a close eye, and a mind evidently busied in thought. 
Laying his hand, at length, on his shoulder, he was about to 
speak, when the deformed started back from the touch as if in hor- 
ror — a feeling, indeed, fully visible in every feature of his face. 

“How, don’t touch Chub, Mr. Guy! Mother said you were 
a dark man, and told me to keep clear of you. Don’t touch me 
agin, Mr. Guy ; I don’t like it.” 

The outlaw, musingly, spoke to his lieutenant : “ And this is 
education. Who shall doubt its importance? who shall say 
that it does not overthrow and altogether destroy the original 
nature ? The selfish mother of this miserable outcast, fearing 
that he might be won away from his service to her, taught him 
to avoid all other persons, and even those who had treated her 
with kindness were thus described to this poor dependant. To 
him the sympathies of others would have been the greatest 
blessing; yet she so tutored him, that, at her death, he was left 
desolate. You hear his account of me, gathered, as he says, and 
as I doubt not, from her own lips. That account is true, so far 
as my other relationships with mankind are concerned ; but not 
true as regards my connection with her. I furnished that old crea- 
ture with food when she was starving, and when this boy, sick 
and impotent, could do little for her service. I never uttered a 


356 


GtJY RITERg. 


harsh word in her ears, or treated her unkindly ; yet this is the 
character she gives of me — and this, indeed, the character 
which she has given of all othets. A feeling of the narrowest 
selfishness has led her deliberately to misrepresent all mankind, 
and has been productive of a more ungracious result, in driving 
one from his species, who, more than any other, stands in need 
of their sympathy and association.” 

While Rivers spoke thus, the idiot listened with an air of the 
most stupid attention. His head fell on one shoulder, and one 
hand partially sustained it. As the former concluded his re- 
marks, Chub recovered a posture as nearly erect as possible, 
and remarked, with as much significance as could comport with 
his general expression — 

“ Chub’s mother was good to Chub, and Mr. Guy mustn’t say 
nothing agin her.” 

“ But, Chub, will you not come and live with me ? I will 
give you a good rifle — one like this, and you shall travel every- 
where with me.” 

“ You will beat Chub when you are angry, and make him 
shoot people with the rifle. I don’t want it. If folks say harm 
to Chub, he can lick ’em with his fists. Chub don’t want to 
live with you.” 

“Well, as you please. But come in and look at my house 
and see where I live.” 

“And shall I see the strannger agin? I can lick him, and I 
told him so. But he called me Chub, and I made friends with 
him.” 

“Yes, you shall see him, and — ” 

“And Miss Lucy, too — I want to see Miss Lucy — Chub saw 
her, and she spoke to Chub yesterday.” 

The outlaw promised him all, and after this there was no fur- 
ther difficulty. The unconscious idiot scrupled no longer, and 
followed his conductors into — prison. It was necessary, for 
the further safety of the outlaws in their present abode, that 
such should be the case. The secret of their hiding-place was 
in the possession of quite too many ; and the subject of deliber * 
ation among the leaders was now as to the propriety of its con- 
tinued tenure. The country, they felt assured, would soon be 
overrun with the state troops. They had no fears of discovQry 


THE ROCK CASTLE OF THE ROBBERS. 


357 


from this source, prior to the affair of the massacre of the guard, 
which rendered necessary the secretion of many in their retreat, 
who, before that time, were perfectly unconscious of its exist- 
ence. In addition to this, it was now known to the pedler and 
the idiot, neither of whom had any reason for secrecy on the 
subject in the event of their being able to make it public. The 
difficulty, with regard to the two latter, subjected them to no 
small risk of suffering from the ultimate necessities of the rogues, 
and there was a sharp and secret consultation as to the mode of 
disposing of the two captives; but so much blood had been al- 
ready spilled, that the sense of the majority revolted at the fur- 
ther resort to that degree of violence — particularly, too, when 
it was recollected that they could only hold their citadel for a 
certain and short period of time. It was determined, therefore, 
that so long as they themselves continued in their hiding-place, 
Bunce and Chub should, perforce, continue prisoners. Having 
so determined, and made their arrangements accordingly, the 
two last-made captives were assigned a cell, chosen with refer- 
ence to its greater security than the other portions of their hold 
— one sufficiently tenacious of its trust, it would seem, to answei 
well its purpose. 

In the meantime, the sufferings of Lucy Munro were such as 
may well he understood from the character of her feelings, as 
we have heretofore beheld their expression. In her own apart- 
ment — her cell, we may style it, for she was in a sort of hon- 
orable bondage — she brooded with deep melancholy over the 
narrative given by the pedler. She had no reason to doubt its 
correctness, and, the more she meditated upon it, the more acute 
became her misery. But a day intervened, and the trial of 
Ralph Colleton must take place ; and, without her evidence, 
she was well aware there could be no hope of his escape from 
the doom of felony — from the death of shame and physical 
agony. The whole picture grew up before her excited fancy. 
She beheld the assembled crowd— ffie saw him borne to exe- 
cution — and her senses reeled beneath the terrible conjurations 
of her fancy. She threw herself prostrate upon her couch, and 
strove not to think, but in vain. Her mind, growing hourly more 
and more intensely excited, at length almost maddened, and she 
grew conscious herself — the worst of all kinds of consciousness 


358 


GUY RIVERS. 


— that her reason was no longer secure in its sovereignty. It 
was with a strong effort of the still-firm will that she strove to 
meditate the best mode of rescuing the victim from the death 
suspended above him ; and she succeeded, while deliberating 
on this object, in q^uieting the more subtle workings of her im- 
agination. 

Many were the thoughts which came into her brain in this 
examination. At one time she thought it not impossible to con- 
vey a letter, in which her testimony should be carefully set 
down; but the difficulty of procuring a messenger, and the 
doubt that such a statement would prove of any avail, decided 
her to seek for other means. An ordinary mind, and a mode- 
rate degree of interest in the fate of the individual, would have 
contented itself with some such step ; but such a mind and such 
affections were not those of the high-souled and spirited Lucy. 
She dreaded not personal danger; and to rescue the youth, 
whom she so much idolized, from the doom that threatened 
him, she would have willingly dared to encounter that doom it- 
self, in its darkest forms. She determined, therefore, to rely 
chiefly upon herself in all efforts which she should make for the 
purposp in view; and her object, therefore, was to effect a re- 
turn to the village in time to appear at the trial. 

Yet how should this be done ? She felt herself to be a cap- 
tive ; she knew the restraints upon her — and did not doubt that 
all her motions were sedulously observed. How then should she 
proceed? An agent was necessary; and, while deliberating 
with herself upon the difficulty thus assailing her at the outset, 
her ears were drawn to the distinct utterance of sounds, as of 
persons engaged in conversation, from the adjoining section of 
the rock. 

One of the voices appeared familiar, and at length she dis- 
tinctly made out her own name in various parts of the dialogue. 
She soon distinguished the nasal tones of the pedler, whose 
prison adjoined her own, separated only by a huge wall of 
earth and rock, the rude and jagged sides of which had been 
made complete, where naturally imperfect, fo. the purposes of 
a wall, by the free use of clay, which, plastered in huge masses 
into the crevices and every fissure, was no inconsiderable apol- 
ogy for the more perfect structures of civilization. 


THE ROCK CASTLE OP THE ROBBERS. 369 

Satisfied, at. length, from what she heard, that the two so con 
fined were friendly, she contrived to make them understand her 
contiguity, by speaking in tones sufficiently low as to he un- 
heard beyond the apartment in which they were. In this way 
she was enabled to converse with thfe pedler, to whom all her 
difficulties were suggested, and to whom she did not hesitate to 
say that she knew that which would not fail to save the life of 
Colleton. 

Bunce was n«t slow to devise various measures for the furthei 
promotion of the scheme, none of which, however, served the 
purpose of showing to either party how they should get out, 
and, hut for the idiot, it is more than probable, despairing of 
success, they would at length have thrown aside the hope of 
doing anything for the youth as perfectly illusory. 

But Chub came in as a prime auxiliar. From the first mo- 
ment in which he heard the gentle tones of Lucy’s voice, he 
had busied himself with his long nails and fingers in removing 
the various masses of clay which had been made to fill up sundry 
crevices of the intervening wall, and had so far succeeded as to 
detach a large square of the rock itself, which, with all possible 
pains and caution, he lifted from the embrasure. This done, he 
could distinguish objects, though dimly, from one apartment in 
the other, and thus introduced the parties to a somewhat nearer 
acquaintance with one another. Having done so much, he re- 
posed from his labors, content with a sight of Lucy, on whom 
he continued to gaze with a fixed and stupid admiration. 

He had pursued this work so noiselessly, and the maiden and 
Bunce had been so busily employed in liscussing their several 
plans, that they had not observed the vast progress which Chub 
had made toward furnishing them with a better solution of their 
difficulties than any of their own previous cogitations. When 
Bunce saw how much had been done in one quarter, he applied 
himself resolutely to similar experiments on the opposite wall : 
and had the satisfaction of discovering that, as a dungeon, the 
dwelling in which they were required to remain was sadly defi- 
cient in some few of the requisites of security. With the aid of a 
small pick of iron, which Lucy handed him from her cell, he 
pierced the outer wall in several places, in which the clay had 
been required to do the offices of the rock, and had the sMis- 


360 


GUY RIVBBS. 


faction of perceiving, from the sudden influx of light in the 
apartment, succeeding his application of the instrument, that, 
with a small labor and in little time, they should be enabled to 
effect their escape, at least into the free air, and under the more 
genial vault of heaven. ’ 

Having made this discovery, it was determined that nothing 
more should be done until night, and having filled up the aper- 
tures which they had made, with one thing or another, they pro- 
ceeded to consult, with more deliberate composure, on the future 
progress. It was arranged that the night should be permitted 
to set in fairly — that Lucy should retire early, having first 
taken care that Munro and her aunt, with whom she more ex- 
clusively consorted — Rivers having kept very much out of 
sight since her removal — should see her at the evening meal, 
without any departure from her usual habits. Bunce undertook 
to officiate as guide, and as Chub expressed himself willing to 
do whatever Miss Lucy should tell him, it was arranged that he 
should remain, occasionally making himself heard in his cell, as 
if in conversation, for as long a period after their departure as 
might be thought necessary to put them sufficiently in advance 
of pursuit — a requisition to which Chub readily gave his con- 
sent. He was the only one of the party who appeared to re- 
gard the whole matter with comparative indifference. He 
knew that a man was in danger of his life — he felt that he 
himself was in prison, and he said he would rather be out 
among the pine-trees — but there was no rush of feeling, such 
as troubled the heart of the young girl, whose spirit, clothing 
itself in all the noblest habiliments of humanity, lifted her up 
into the choicest superiority of character — nor had the dwarf 
that anxiety to do a service to his fellow, which made the ped- 
ler throw aside some of his more worldly characteristics — he 
did simply as he was bid, and had no further care. 

Miss Lucy, he said, talked sweetly, like his mother, and Chub 
would do for Miss Lucy anything that she asked him. The 
principle of his government was simple, and having chosen a 
sovereign, he did not withhold his obedience. Thus stood the 
preparations of the three prisoners, when darkness — long- 
looked-for, and hailed with trembling emotions — at length 
ctime down over the silent homestead of the outlaws, 


ESCAPE. 


^61 


CHAPTER XXXii. 

ESCAPE. 

The night gathered, apace, and the usual hour of repose had 
come. Lucy retired to her apartment with a trembling heart, 
but a courageous spirit, full of a noble determination to perse- 
vere in her project. Though full of fear, she never for a mo- 
ment thought of retreat from the decision which she had made. 
Her character afforded an admirable model for the not uiifre- 
quent union that we find in woman, of shrinking delicacy with 
manly and efficient firmness. 

Munro and Rivers, having first been assured that all was 
quiet, by a ramble which they took around their hiding-place, 
returned to the little chanfher of tlie latter, such as we have de- 
scribed it in a previous portion of our narrative, and proceeded 
to the further discussion of their plans. The mind of the land- 
lord was very ill at ease. He had arrived at that time of life 
when repose and a fixed habitation became necessary; and 
when, whatever may have been the habits of earlier manhood, 
the mind ceases to crave the excitements of adventure, and fore- 
goes, or would fain forego, all its roving characteristics. To 
this state of feeling had he come, and the circumstances which 
now denied him the fruition of that prospect of repose which he 
liad been promising himself so long, were regarded with no 
little restlessness and impatience. At the moment, the col- 
leagues could make no positive arrangements for the future. 
Munro was loth to give up the property which, in one way or 
other, he had acquired in the neighborhood, and which it was 
impossible for him to remove to any other region ; and, strange 
to say, a strong feeling of inhabitiveness — the love of home — 
if home he could be thought to have anywhere — might almost 
be considered a passion with his less scrupulous companion. 

G 


362 


GUY RIVERS. 


Thus situated, they lingered on in the hope .that the military 
would soon be withdrawn from the neighborhood, as it could 
only be maintained at great expense by the state ; and then, as 
the country was but nominally settled, and so sparsely as to 
scarcely merit any consideration, they felt assured that they 
might readily return to their old, or any practices, and without 
any further apprehension. The necessity, however, which 
made them thus deliberate, had the effect, at the same time, of 
impressing them with a gloomy spirit, not common to either of 
them. 

“ Let us see, Munro,” said the more desperate ruffian ; “ there 
is, after all, less to apprehend than we first thought. In a week, 
and the court will be over ; in another week, and the guard will 
be withdrawn ; and for this period only will it be necessary that 
we should keep dark. I think we are now perfectly safe where 
we are. The only persons who know of our retreat, and might 
be troublesome, are safe in our possession. They will hardly 
escape until we let them, and before we do so we slnall first see 
that they can give us no further necessity for caution. Of our 
own party, none are permitted to know the secrets of our hiding- 
place, but those in whom we may trtlst confidently. I have ta- 
ken care to provide for the doubtful at some distance in the ad- 
joining woods, exaggerating so greatly the danger of exposure, 
that they will hardly venture to be seen under any circumstan- 
ces by anybody. Once let these two weeks go over, and I have 
no fears ; we shall have no difficulties then.” 

“And what’s to be done with the pcdler and the fool I I say, 
Guy, there must be no more blood — I will not agree to it. The 
fact is, I feel more and more dismal every day since that poor 
follow’s death ; and now that the youngster’s taken, the thought 
is like fire in my brain, which tells me he may suffer for our 
crime.” 

“ Why, you are grown parson. Would you go and save him, 
by giving up the true criminal 1 I shall look for it after thk, 
and consider myself no longer in safety. If you go on in this 
manner, I shall begin to meditate an )ff-hand journey to the 
Mississippi.” 

“Ay, and the sooner we all go the better — though, to be 
plain, Guy, let this affair once j g^re not to go 


ESCAPE. 


303 


with you any longer. We must tlien cut loose .'or ever, I .-.i;*! 
not a good man, I know — anything but that; hut you lia\e 
carried me on, step by step, until I am what I am afraid to 
name to myself. You found me a rogue — you have, made me 
a — ” 

“ Why do you hesitate ? Speak it out, Munro ; it is a large 
step gained toward reform when we learn to name truly our of 
fences to ourselves.” 

“ I dare not. The thought is sufficiently horrible without the 
thing. I hear some devil whispering it too frequently in my ears, 
to venture upon its utterance myself. But you — how you can 
live without feeling it, after your experience, which has been 
so much more dreadful than mine, I know not.” 

“ I do feel it, Munro, but have long since ceased to fear it. . 
The reiteration takes away the terror which is due rather to 
the novelty than to the offence. But when I began, I felt it. 
The first sleep I had after the affair of Jessup was full of tor- 
tures. The old man, I thought, lay beside me in my bed ; his 
blood ran under me, and clotted around me, and fastened me 
there, while his gashed face kept peering into mine, and his 
eyes danced over me with the fierce light of a threatening 
comet. The dream nearly drove me mad, and mad I should 
have been had I gone to my prayers. I knew that, and chose 
a different course for relief.” 

“ What was that ?” 

“ I sought for another victim as soon after as I conveniently 
could. The one spectre superseded the other, until all vanish- 
ed. They never trouble me now, though sometimes, in my 
waking moments, I have met them on the roadside, glaring at 
me from bush or tree, until I shouted at them fiercely, and 
then they were gone. These are my terrors, and they do 
sometimes unman me.” 

“ They would do more with me ; they would destroy me on 
the spot. But, let us have no more of this. Let us rather see 
if we can not do something towards making our visions more 
agreeable. Do you persevere in the sacrifice of this youngster ? 
Must he die ?” 

“ Am I a child, Walter Munro, that you ask me such a ques- 
tion ? Must I again tell over the accursed story of my defeat 


364 


GUY RIVERS. 


and of his success ? Must I speak of my thousand defeats — of 
my overthrown pretensions — my blasted hopes, where I had 
set my affections — upon which every feeling of my heart had 
been placed ? Must I go over a story so full of pain and hu- 
miliation — must I describe my loss, in again placing before 
your eyes a portraiture like this? Look, man, look — and 
read my answer in the smile, which, denying me, teaches me, 
in this case, to arm myself with a denial as immutable as hers.” 

He placed before his companion the miniature of Edith, 
which he took from his bosom, where he seemed carefully to 
treasure it. He was again the envenomed and the excited sav- 
age which we have elsewhere seen him, and in which mood 
Munro knew well that nothing could be done with him in the 
shape of argument or entreaty. He went on : — 

“ Ask me no questions, Munro, so idle, so perfectly unneces- 
sary as this. Fprtune has done handsomely here. He falls 
through mey yet falls by the common hangman. What a double 
blow is this to both of them. I have been striving to imagine 
their feelings, and such a repast as that effort has procured me 
— I would not exchange it — no — not for worlds — for nothing 
less, Munro, than my restoration back to that society — to that 
place in society, from which my fierce passions, and your cruel 
promptings, and the wrongs of society itself, have for ever ex- 
iled me.” 

“ And would you return, if you could do so ? 

“To-morrow — to-night — this instant. I am sanguinary, 
Munro — revengeful — fierce — all that is bad, because I am 
not permitted to be better. My pride, my strong feelings and 
deeply absorbing mood — these have no other field for exercise. 
The love of home, the high ambition, which, had society done 
me common justice, and had not, in enslaving itself, dishonored 
and defrauded me — would, under other circumstances, have 
made me a patriot. My pride is even now to command the 
admiration of men — I never sought their love. Their appro- 
bation would have made me fearless and powerful in tl eir de- 
fence and for their rights — their injustice makes me their ene- 
my. My passions, unprovoked and unexaggerated by mortify- 
ing repulses, would have only been a warm and stimulating 
influence, perpetually working in their service — but, pressed 


ESCAPE. 


366 


it^on and irritated as ti.ey have been they grew into so many 
wild beasts, and preyed upon the cruel or the careless keepers, * 
whose gentle treatment and constant attention had tamed them 
into obedient servants. Yet, would I could, even now, return 
to that condition in which there might be hope. The true 
spectre of the criminal — such as I am — the criminal chiefly 
from the crimes and injustice of society, not forgetting the edu- 
cation of my boyhood, which grew out of the same crimes, and 
whose most dreadful lesson is selfishness— is despair! The 
black waters once past, the blacker hills rise between, and 
there is no return to those regions of hope, which, once lost, 
are lost for ever. This is the true punishment— the worst 
punishment which man inflicts upon his fellow — the felony of 
public opinion. The curse of society is no unfit illustration of 
that ban which its faith holds forth as the penal doom of the 
future. There is no return !’' 

The dialogue, mixed up thus, throughout, with the utterance 
of opinions on the part of the outlaw, many of which were true 
or founded in truth, yet coupled with many false deductions — 
was devoted, for some little while longer, to the discussion of 
their various necessities and plans for the future. The night 
had considerably advanced in this way, when, of a sudden, 
their ears were assailed with an eldritch screech, like that of 
the owl, issuing from one of the several cells around them. 

The quick sense of Rivers immediately discerned the voice 
of the idiot, and without hesitation he proceeded to that divis- 
ion of the rock which contained the two prisoners. To each 
of these apartments had been assigned a sentinel, or watch, 
whose own place of abode — while covered completely and 
from sight, and in all respects furnishing a dwelling, though 
rather a confined one for himself — enabled him to attend to the 
duty assigned him without himself being seen. The night had 
been fairly set in, when Bunce, with the aid of Chub Williams, 
with all due caution proceeded to his task, and with so much 
success, that, in the course of a couple of hours, they had suc- 
ceeded, not only in making a fair outlet for themselves, but for 
Lucy Munro too. 

The watchman, in the meantime, holding his duty as merely 
nominal, gave himself as little trouble as possible ; and believ 


m 


GUY ItlVEiiS. 


ing all tilings quiet, had, after a little while, insinuated himself 
into the good graces of as attractive a slumber as may usually 
be won in the warm summer season in the south, by one to 
whom a nightwatch is a peculiarly ungracious exercise. Before 
this conclusion, however, he looked forth every now and then, 
and deceived by the natural stillness of earth and sky, he 
committed the further care of the hours, somewhat in anticipation 
of the time, to the successor who was to relieve him on the watch. 

Without being conscious of this decision in their favor, and 
ignorant entirely of the sentinel himself, the peJler fortunately 
chose this period for his own departure with the young lady 
whom he was to escort ; and who, with probably far less fear 
than her gallant, did not scruple, for a single instant, to go 
forth under his guidance. Chub took his instructions from the 
lips of Lucy, and promised the most implicit obedience. 

They had scarcely been well gone when the sentinels were 
changed, and one something more tenacious of discipline, or 
something less drowsy than his predecessor, took his place. 
After muttering at intervals, as directed, for the space of an 
hour, probably, from the time at which his companion had de- 
parted, Chub thought it only prudent to sally forth too. Ac- 
cordingly, ascending to the break in the wall, through which 
his companion had made his way, the urchin emerged from the 
cavern at the unlucky moment, when, at some ten or fifteen 
paces in fi*ont of him, the sentinel came forth from his niche to 
inspect the order of his watch. Chub saw his adversary first, 
and his first impulse originated the scream which drew the at- 
tention of Rivers, as already narrated. The outlaw rushed 
quickly to the scene of difficulty, and before the sentinel had 
well recovered from the astonishment occasioned by the singu- 
larly sudden appearance and wild screech of the urchin. 

“ Why, what is this, Briggs j what see you ?” was the hasty 
inquiry of Rivers. 

“There, sir, there,” exclaimed the watch, still half bewilder- 
ed, and pointing to the edge of the hill, where, in a condition 
seemingly of equal incertitude with himself, stood the imbecile. 

“Seize upon him — take him at once — let him not escape 
yoa !” were the hasty orders of the outlaw. Briggs set forward, 
but his approach had the effect of giving determination also to 


JJSCAPE. 


367 


Chub ; who, just as the pursuer thought himself sure of his 
captive, and was indeed indirectly upon him, doubled himself 
up, as it were into a complete ball, and without effort rolled 
headlong down the hill; gathering upon his feet as he attained 
the level, seemingly unhurt, and with all the agility of the 
monkey. 

“ Shall I shoot, sir was the inquiry of Briggs, as the urchin 
stood off, laughing wildly at his good fortune. 

“Now, don’t” — was the cry — “Now, don’t” — was the excla- 
mation of Chuh himself, who, however, trusting nothing to the 
effect of his entreaty, ran vigorously on his way. 

“Yes, shoot him down,” was the sudden exclamation of 
Munro ; but Rivers struck the poised weapon upward in the 
hands of the sentinel, to the astonishment, not less of him than 
of the landlord. 

“No — let him live, Munro. Let him live. Such as ho 
should be spared. Is he not alone — without fellowship — 
scorned — an outcast — without sympathy — like myself. Let 
him live, let him live !” 

The word of mercy from his lips utterly confounded his com- 
panion. But, remembering that Rivers was a monster of con- 
tradictions, Munro turned away, and gave directions to see after 
the other prisoners. 

A few moments sufficed for this, and the panic was universal 
among the inmates of the rock. The secret was now lost, un- 
less immediate pursuit could avail in the recovery of the fugi- 
tives. This pursuit was immediately undertaken, and both 
Rivers and Munro, taking different directions, and dispersing 
their whole force about the forest, set off on the search. 

Apprehensive of pursuit, the policy of Bunce, to whom Lucy 
gave up the entire direction of their flight, was determined upon 
with not a little judgment. Assured that his pursuers would 
search chiefly on the direct route between their abode and the 
village, to which they would necessarily sui-mise the flight was 
directed, he boldly determined upon a course, picked sinuously 
out, obliquing largely from the true direction, which, while it 
would materially lengthen the distance, would at least secure 
them, he thought, from the danger of contact with the scouring 
party. 


368 


GUY RIVERS. 


By no means ignorant of the country, in and about which he 
had frequently travelled in the pursuit of trade, he contrived, 
in this way, completely to mislead the pursuers ; and the morn- 
ing found them still some distance from the village, but in a 
direction affording few chances of interruption in their contem- 
plated approach to it. 

Lucy was dreadfully fatigued, and a frequent sense of weari- 
ness almost persuaded her to lay down life itself in utter ex- 
haustion : but the encouraging words of the pedler, and the 
thought of Jiis peril, for whose safety — though herself hopeless 
of all besides — she would willingly peril all, restored her, and 
invigorated her to renewed effort. 

At the dawn of day they approached a small farmhouse, 
some of the inmates of which happened to know Lucy; and, 
though they looked somewhat askant at her companion, and 
wondered not a little at the circumstance of her travelling at 
such a time of night, yet, as she was generally well respected, 
their surmises and scruples were permitted to sleep ; and, after 
a little difficulty, they were persuaded to lend her the family 
pony and side-saddle, v/ith the view to the completion of her 
journey. After taking some slight refreshment, she hurried on; 
Bunce, keeping the road afoot, alongside, with all the patient 
docility of a squire of the middle ages ; and to the great satis- 
faction of all parties, they arrived in sight of the village just 
as Counsellor Pippin, learned in the law, was disputing with 
the state attorney upon the non-admissibility of certain points 
of testimony, which it was the policy of the former to exclude. 


DOOM • 


369 


CHAPTER XXXIII 

DOOM. 

The village of Chestatee was crowded with visiters of all 
descriptions. Judges and lawyers, soldiers and citizens and 
farmers — all classes were duly represented, and a more whole- 
some and subordinate disposition in that quarter, may he in- 
ferred as duly resulting from the crowd. Curiosity brought 
many to the spot from portions of country twenty, thirty, and 
even forty miles off — for, usually well provided with good 
horses, the southron finds a difference of ten or twenty miles no 
great matter. 

Such had been the reputation of the region here spoken of, 
not less for its large mineral wealth than for the ferocious char- 
acter of those in its neighborhood, that numbers, who would not 
otherwise have adventured, now gladly took advantage of the 
great excitement, and the presence of so many, to examine a 
section of country of which they had heard so much. There 
came the planter, of rather more wealth than his neighbors, 
solicitous for some excitement and novelty to keep himself from 
utter stagnation. There came the farmer, discontented with his 
present abiding-place, and in search of a new spot of more 
promise, in which to drive stakes and do better. The lawyer, 
from a neighboring county, in search of a cause j the creditor 
in search of his runaway debtor — the judge and the jury also 
adding something, not less to the number than the respectability 
of the throng. 

The grand-jury had found several bills, and most of them for 
the more aggravated offences in the estimation of the law. 
Rivers, Munro, Blundell, Forrester, were all severally and 
collectively included in their inquiries j but as none of the 
parties were to be found for the present at least, as one of them 


370 


GUY. RIVEIiS. 


had been removed to another and higher jurisdiction, the case 
of most importance left for trial was that wJiich charged Colle- 
ton with Forrester’s murder. 

There was no occasion for delay ; and, in gloomy and half- 
desponding mood, though still erect and unshrinking to the eye 
of the beholder, Ealph refused the privilege of a traverse, and 
instructed Pippin to go on with the case. The lawyer himself 
had not the slightest objection to this procedure, for, hot to be 
harsh in our estimate of his humanities, there is no reason to 
believe that he regarded for a single instant the value of his 
client’s life, but as its preservation was to confer credit upon 
his capacity as his legal friend and adviser. The issue was 
consequently made up without delay — the indictment was read 
— the prisoner put himself upon God and the country, accord- 
ing to the usual forms, and the case proceeded.^ 

The general impression of the spectators was decidedly in 
favor of the accused. His youth — the noble bearing — the 
ease, the unobtrusive confidence — the gentle expression, pliant 
and, though sad, yet entirely free from anything like desponding 
weakness — all told in his favor. He was a fine specimen of 
the southern gentleman — the true nobleman of that region, 
whose pride of character is never ostentatiously displayed and 
is only to be felt in the influence which it invariably exercises 
over all with whom it may have contact or connection. Though 
fiiTn in every expression, and manly in every movement, there 
was nothing in the habit and appearance of Ralph, which, to 
the eye of those around, savored of the murderer. There was 
nothing ruffianly or insincere. But, as the testimony proceeded 
— when the degree of intimacy was shown which had existed 
between himself and the murdered man — when they heard that 
Forrester had brought him wounded and fairting to his home — 
had attended him — had offered even to fight for him with 
Rivers ; when all these facts were developed, in connection 
with the sudden flight of the person so befriended — on the 
same night with him who had befriended him — he having a 
knowledge of the proposed departure of the latter — and with 
the finding of the bloody dagger marked with the youth’s ini- 
tials— *■ the feeling of sympathy very perceptibly underwent a 
chaiige. The people, proverbially fickle, and, in the present 


DOOM. 


371 


iustance justifiably so, veered round to the opposite extreme of 
opinion, and a confused buzz around, sometimes made sufficiently 
audible to all senses, indicated the unfavorable character of the 
change. The witnesses were closely examined, and the story 
was complete and admirably coherent. The presumptions, as 
they were coupled together, were conclusive j and, when it was 
found that not a solitary witness came forward even to say that 
the accused was a man of character and good connections — a 
circumstance which could not materially affect the testimony as 
it stood, but which, wanting, gave it additional force — the un- 
happy youth, himself, felt that all was over. 

A burning flush, succeeded by a deathlike paleness, tame 
over his face for a moment — construed by those around into a 
consciousness of guilt ; for, where the prejudices of m^n become 
active, all appearances of change, which go not to affect the 
very foundation of the bias, are only additional proofs of what 
they have before believed. He rested his head upon his hands 
in deep but momentary agony. What were his feelings then 1 
With warm, pure emotions ; with a pride only limited by a true 
sense of propriety ; with an ambition whose eye was sunward 
ever ; with affections which rendered life doubly desirable, and 
which made love a high and holy aspiration : with these several 
and predominating feelings struggling in his soul, to be told of 
such a doom ; to be stricken from the respect of his fellows ; to 
forfeit life, and love, and reputation ; to undergo the punishment 
of the malefactor, and to live in memory only as a felon — un- 
grateful, foolish, fiendish — a creature of dishonest passions, and 
mad and merciless in their exercise ! 

The tide of thought which bore to his consciousness all these 
harrowing convictions, was sudden as the wing of the lightning, 
and nearly shattered, in that single instant, the towering man- 
hood whose high reachings had attracted it. But the pride 
consequent to his education, and the society in which he had 
lived, came to his relief; and, after the first dreadful agony of 
soul, he again stood erect, and listened, seemingly unmoved, to 
the defences set up by his counsel. 

But how idle, even to his mind, desirous as he must have 
been of every species of defence, were all the vainglorious 
mouthings the pettifogger ! He soon discovered that the 


372 


GUY RIVERS. 


ambition of Pippin chiefly consisted in the utterance of his 
speech. He saw, too, in a little while, that the nonsense of tlie 
lawyer had not even the^solitary merit — if such it be — of being 
extemporaneous ; and in the slow and monotonous delivery of 
a long string of stale truisms, not bearing any analogy to the 
case in hand, he perceived the dull elaborations of the closet. 

But such was not the estimate of the lawyer himself. He 
knew what he was about ; and having satisfied himself that the 
case was utterly hopeless, he was only solicitous that the peo- 
ple should see that he could still make a speech. He well 
knew that his auditory, perfectly assured with himself of the 
hopelessness of the defence, would give him the credit of having 
made the most of his materials, and this was all he wanted. In 
the course of his exhortations, however, he was unfortunate 
enough to make an admission for his client which was, of itself, 
fatal ; and his argument thence became unnecessary. He ad- 
mitted that the circumstances sufficiently established the charge 
of killing, but proceeded, however, to certain liberal assump- 
tions, without any ground whatever, of provocation on the part 
of Forrester, which made his murder only matter of self-defence 
on the side of the accused, whose crime therefore became justi- 
fiable : but Kalph, who had for some time been listening with 
manifest impatience to sundry other misrepresentations, not 
equally evil with this, but almost equally annoying, now rose 
and interrupted him ; and, though the proceeding was something 
informal, proceeded to correct the statement. 

“ No one, may it please your honor, and you, gentlemen, now 
presiding over my fate,^an be more conscious than myself, from 
the nature of the evidence given in this case, of the utter hope- 
lessness of any defence which may be offered on my behalf. 
But, while recognising, in their fullest force, the strong circunv 
Btantial proofs of crime which you have heard, T may be permit- 
ted to deny for myself what my counsel has been pleased to 
admit for me. To say that I have not been guilty of this crime, 
is only to repeat that which was said when I threw myself upon 
the justice of the country. I denied any knowledge of it then 
— I deny any knowledge of, or participation in it, now. I am 
not guilty of this killing, whether with or without justification. 
The blood of the unfortunate man Forrester is not upon my 


DOOM. 


373 


hands ; and, whatever may be your decree this day, of this sweet 
consciousness nothing can deprive me. 

“ I consider, may it please your honm*, that my counsel, hav- 
ing virtually abandoned my cause, I have the right to go oU 
with it myself — ” 

But Pippin, who had been dreadfully impatient heretofore, 
started forward with evident alarm. 

“ Oh. no — no, your honor — my client — Mr. Colleton — how 
can you think such a thing? I have not, your honor, aban- 
doned the case. On the contrary, your honor will remember 
that it was while actually proceeding with the case that I was 
interrupted.” 

The youth, with a singular degree of composure, replied : — 

“ Your honor will readily understand me, though the gentle- 
man of the bar does not. I conceive him not only to have aban- 
doned the case, your honor, but actually to have joined hand 
and hand with the prosecuting counsel. It is true, sir, that he 
still calls himself my counsel — and still, under that name, pre- 
sumes to harangue, as he alleges, in my behalf ; hut, when he 
violates the truth, not less than my instructions — when he de- 
clares all that is alleged against me in that paper to he true, all 
of which 1 declare to he false — when he admits me to ho guilty 
of a crime of which I am not guilty — I say that he has not 
only abandoned my case, but that he has betrayed the trust 
reposed in him. What, your honor, must the jury infer from 
the confession which he has just made? — what, hut that in my 
conference with him I have made the same confession ? It be- 
comes necesjsary, therefore, may it please your honor, not only 
that I take from him, thus openly, the power which I confided 
to him, but that I call upon your honor to demand from him, 
upon oath, whether such an admission was ever made to him by 
me. I know that my own words will avail me nothing here — 
I also know why they should not — but I am surely entitled to 
require that he should speak out, as to the truth,^^ien Ms mis- 
representations are to make weight against me in future. His 
oath, that I made no such confession to him, will avail nothing 
for my defence, hut will avail greatly with those who, from 
present appearances, are likely to condemn me. I call u^u 
him, may it please your honor, as matter of right, that he should 


374 


Gtr rivehs. 


be sw(yrn to this particular. This, your honor will perceive, if 
my assertion he true, is the smallest justice which he can do 
me; beyond this I will ^sk and suggest nothing — leaving it to 
your own mind how far the license of his profession should be 
permitted to one who thus not only abandons, hut betrays and 
misrepresents his client.” 

The youth was silent, and Pippin rose to speak in his defence. 
Without being sworn, he admitted freely that such a confession 
had not been made, but that he had inferred the killing from 
the nature of the testimony, which he thought conchisive on the 
point ; that his object had been to suggest a probable difficulty 
between the parties, in which he would have shown Forrester 
as the aggressor. He bungled on for some time longer in this 
manner, but, as he digressed again into the defence of the ac- 
cused, Ralph again begged to interrupt him. 

“ I think, it important, may it please your honor, that the 
gentleman should be sworn as to the simple fact which he has 
uttered. 1 want it on record^ that, at some future day, the few 
who have any interest in my fate should feel no mortifying 
doubts of my innocence when reminded of the occurrence — 
which this strange admission, improperly circulated, might oth- 
erwise occasion. Let him swear, your honor, to the fact ; this, 
I think, I may require.” 

After a few moments of deliberation, his honor decided that 
the demand was one of right, strictly due, not merely to the 
prisoner and to the abstract merits of the case, but also to the 
necessity which such an event clearly occasioned, of establishing 
certain governing principles for restraining those holding situa- 
tions so responsible, who should so far wilfully betray their 
trusts. The lawyer was made to go through the humiliating 
process, and then subjected to a sharp reprimand from the 
judge ; who, indeed, might have well gone further, in actually 
striking his name from the rolls of court. 

It was just after this interesting period in the history of the 
trial — and when Pippin, who could not be made to give up the 
case, as Ralph had required, was endeavoring to combat with 
the attorney of the state some incidental points of doctrine, and 
to resist their application to \ ertain parts of the previously, 
recorded testimony — that our heroine, Lucy Mimro, attended 


DOOM. 


375 


by her trusty squire, Bunce, made her appearance in the court- 
house. 

She entered the hall more dead than^live. The fire was no 
longer in her eye — a thick haze had overspread its usually 
rich and lustrous expression ; her form trembled with the emo- 
tion — the strong and struggling emotion of her soul; and fa- 
tigue had done much toward the general enervation of her per- 
son. The cheek was pale with the innate consciousness ; the 
lips were blanched, and slightly parted, as if wanting in the 
muscular exercise which could bring them together. She tot- 
tered forward to the stand upon which the witnesses were usu- 
ally assembled, and to which her course had been directed, and 
for a few moments after her appearance in the courtroom her 
progress had been as one stunned by a sudden and severe blow”. 

But, when roused by the confused hum of human voices 
around her, she ventured to look up, and her eye, as if by in- 
stinct, turned upon the dark box assigned for the accused — she 
again saw the form, iu her mind and eye, of almost faultless 
mould and excellence — then there was no more weakness, no 
more struggle. Her eye kindled, the color rushed into her cheeks, 
a sudden spirit reinvigorated her frame ; and, with clasped 
hands, she boldly ascended the small steps which led to the 
stand from which her evidence was to be given, and declared 
her ability, in low tones, almost unheard but by the judge, to 
furnish matter of interest and importance to the defence. Some 
little demur as to the formality of such a proceeding, after the 
evidence had been fairly closed, took place between the coun- 
sel ; but, fortunately for justice, the judge was too wise and too 
good a man to limit the course of truth to prescribed rules, 
which could not be affected by a departure, in the present in- 
stance, from their restraints. The objection was overruled, and 
the bold but trembling girl was called upon for her testimony. 

A new hope had been breathed into the bosoms of the par- 
ties most concerned, on the appearance of this interruption to 
the headlong and impelling force of the circumstances so fatally 
arrayed against the prisoner. The pedler was overjoyed, and 
concluded that the danger was now safely over. The youth 
himself felt his spirit much lighter in his bosom, although ho 
himself knew not the extent of that testimony in his favor which 


376 


GtJY RIVERS. 


Lucy was enabled to give. He only knew that sbe could ac- 
count for his sudden flight on the night of the murder, leading 
to a fair presumption that he had not premeditated such an act ; 
and knew not that it was in her power to overthrow the only 
fact, among the circumstances an-ayed against him, by which 
they had been so connected as to make out his supposed guilt. 

Sanguine, herself, that the power was in her to efiect the" 
safety of the accused, Lucy had not for a moment considered 
the efiect upon others, more nearly connected with her than the 
youth, of the development which she was prepared to make. 
These considerations were yet to come. 

The oath was administered ; she began her narration, but at 
the very outset, the difficulties of her situation beset her. How 
was she to save the man she loved ? How, but by showing the 
guilt of her uncle 1 How was she to prove that the dirk of the 
youth was not in his possession at the time of the murder ? By 
showing that, just before that time, it was in the possession of 
Munro, who was setting forth for the express purpose of mur- 
dering the very man, now accused and held guilty of the same 
crime. The fearful gathering of thoughts and images, thus, 
without preparation, working in her mind, again destroyed the 
equilibrium by which her truer senses would have enforced her 
determination to proceed. Her head swam, her words were 
confused and incoherent, and perpetually contradictory. The 
hope which her presence had inspired as suddenly departed; 
and pity and doubt were the prevailing sentiments of the spec- 
tators. 

After several inefPectual efforts to proceed, she all at once 
seemed informed of the opinions around her, and gathering new 
courage from the dreadful thought now forcing itself upon her 
mind, that what she had said had done nothing toward her ob- 
ject, she exclaimed impetuously, advancing to the judge, and 
speaking alternately from him to the jury and the counsel — 

“ He is not guilty of this crime, believe me. I may not say 
what I know — I can not — you would not expect me to reveal 
it. It would involve others whom I dare not name. I must 
not say that — but, believe me, Mr. Colleton is not guilty — he 
did not commit the murder — it was somebody else — I know, I 
will swear, he had no hand in the matter.” 


DOOM. 


ST”. 

“Very well, my young lady, I Lave no doubt you think, and 
honestly believe, all that you say ; but what reasons have you 
for this bold assertion in the teeth of all the testimony which 
has already been given ? You must not be surprised, if we are 
slow in believing what you tell us, until you can show upon 
what grounds you make your statement. How know you that 
the prisoner did not commit this crime ? Do you know who 
did ? Can you reveal any facts for our knowledge ? This is 
what you must do. Do not be terrified — speak freely — officer ! 
a chair for the lady — tell us all that you know — keep nothing 
back — remember, you are sworn to speak the truth — the icholt 
truths 

The judge spoke kindly and encouragingly, while, with con- 
siderable emphasis, he insisted upon a full statement of all she 
knew. But the distress of the poor girl increased with every 
moment of thought, which warned her of the predicament in 
w'hich such a statement must necessarily involve her uncle. 

“Oh, how can I speak all this? How can I tell that which 
must destroy him — ” 

“Him? — Of whom do you speak, lady? Who is heV in- 
quired the attorney of the state. 

“He — who? — Oh, no, I can say nothing. I can tell you 
nothing. I know nothing but that Mr. Colleton is not guilty. 
He struck no blow at Fon-ester. I am sure of it — some other 
hand — some other person. How can you believe that he would 
do so?” 

There was no such charitable thought for him, however, in 
the minds of those who heard — as how should there be? A 
whispering dialogue now took place between the judge and the 
counsel, in which, while they evidently looked upon her as little 
better than demented with her love for the accused, they still 
appeared to hold it due to justice, not less than to humanity, to 
obtain from her every particular of testimony bearing on the 
case, which, by possibility, she might really have in her posses- 
sion. Not that they really believed that she knew anything 
which might avail the prisoner. Regarding her as individual- 
ly and warmly interested in his life, they looked upon her ap- 
pearance, and the evidence which she tendered —if so it might 
be styled— as solely intended to provoke sympathy, gain time. 


378 


GUY RIVERS. 


or, possibly, as the mere ebullition of feelings so deeply excited 
as to have utterly passed the bounds of all restraining reason. 
The judge, who was a good, not less than a sensible man, under- 
took, in concluding this conference, to pursue the examination 
himself, with the view to bringing out such portions of her in- 
formation as delicacy or some other more influential motive 
might persuade her to conceal. 

“ You are sure, Miss Munro, of the innocence of the prisoner 
so sure that you are willing to swear to it. Such is your con- 
viction, at least ; for, unless you saw the blow given by another 
hand, or could prove Mr. Colleton to have been elsewhere at the 
time of the murder, of course you could not, of a certainty, swear 
to any such fact. You are not now to say v/hether you believe 
him capable of such an act or not. You are to say whether you 
know of any circumstances which shall acquit him of the charge, 
or, furnish a plausible reason, why others, not less than yourself, 
should have a like reason with yourself to believe him innocent. 
Can you do this. Miss Munro 1 Can you show anything, in this 
chain of circumstances, against him, which, of your own knowl- 
edge, you can say to be untrue ? Speak out, young lady, and 
rely upon every indulgence from the court.” 

Here the judge recapitulated all the evidence which had been 
furnished against the prisoner. The maiden listened with close 
attention, and the difficulties of her situation became more and 
more obvious. Finding her slow to answer, though her looks 
were certainly full of meaning, the presiding officer took an- 
other course for the object which he had in view. He now 
proceeded to her examination in the following form : — 

“ You know the prisoner 

“I do.” 

“ You knew the murdered man ?” 

‘ Perfectly.” 

“Were they frequently together since the appearance of the 
prisoner in these regions 

“ Frequently.” 

“ At the house in which you dwell ]” 

“Yes.” 

“ Were they together on the day preceding the night of the 
murder 


DOOM. 


879 


“ They were- throughout the better portion of it.” 

“ Did they separate at your place of residence, and what 
was the employment of the prisoner subsequently on the same 
day 1” 

“ They did separate while at our house, Mr. Colleton retiring 
at an early hour of the evening to his chamber.” 

“ So far. Miss Miinro, your answers correspond directly with 
the evidence, and now come the important portions. You will 
answer briefly and distinctly. After that, did you see anything 
more of the prisoner, and know you of his departure from the 
house — the hour of the night — the occasion of his going — and 
the circumstances attending it ?” 

These questions were, indeed, all important to the female 
delicacy of the maiden, as well as to the prisoner, and as her 
eye sunk in confusion, and as her cheek paled and kindled with 
the innate consciousness, the youth, who had hitherto been si- 
lent, now rose, and without the slightest hesitancy of manner, 
requested of the maiden that she would say no more. 

“ See you not, your honor, that her mind wavers — that she 
speaks and thinks wildly ? I am satisfied that though she might 
say something, your honor, in accounting for my strange flight, 
yet, as that constitutes but a small feature in the circumstances 
against me, what she can allege will avail me little. Press her 
no farther, therefore, I entreat you. Let her retire. Her word 
can do me no good, and I would not, that, for my sake and life, 
she should feel, for a single instant an embarrassment of spirit, 
which, though it be honorable in its character, must necessarily 
be distressing in its exercise. Proceed with your judgment, I 
pray you — whatever it may be; I am now ready for the worst, 
and though innocent as the babe unborn of the crime urged against 
me, I am not afraid to meet its consequences. I am not unwil- 
ling to die.” 

“But you must not die — they will not — they can not find 
you guilty ! How know they you are guilty ? Who dares say 
you are guilty, when I know you are innocent ? Did I not see 
you fly? ■ Did I not send you on your way — was it not to 
escape from murder yourself that you flew, and how should you 
have been guilty of that crime of which you were the destined 
victim yourself? Oh, no — no! y^u are not guilty — and the 


m 


GUY RlVEtlS. 


dagger-- I heard that ! — that is not true— oh, no, the dagger 
— you dropt it — ” 

The eye of the inspired girl was caught by a glance — a sin- 
gle glance — from one at the opposite corner of the court-room, 
and that glance brought her hack to the full consciousness of the 
fearful development she was about to make. A decrepit old wo- 
man, resting with bent form upon a staff, which was planted firm- 
ly before her, seemed wrapped in the general interest pervading 
the court. The woman was huge of frame and rough of make ; 
her face was large and swollen, and the tattered cap and bonnet, 
the coarse and soiled materials which she wore, indicated one of 
the humblest caste in the country. Her appearance attracted 
no attention, and she was unmarked by all around ; few having 
eyes for anything but the exciting business under consideration. 

But the disguise did not conceal her uncle from the glance of 
his niece. That one look had the desired effect — the speech 
was arrested before its conclusion, and the spectators, now more 
than ever assured of the partial sanity of the witness, gave up 
any doubts which had previously began to grow in behalf of the 
accused. A second look of the landlord was emphatic enough 
for the purpose of completely silencing her farther evidence. 
She read in its fearful expression, as plainly as if spoken in 
words — “ The next syllable you utter is fatal to your uncle — 
your father. Now speak, Lucy, if you can.” 

For a single moment she was dumb and stationary — her eye 
turned from her uncle to the prisoner. Horror, and the agonies 
natural to the strife in her bosom, were in its wild expression, 
and, with a single cry of “ I can not — I must not save him!” 
from her pallid lips, she sunk down senseless upon the floor, 
and was borne out by several of the more sympathizing spec- 
tators. 

There was nothing now to delay the action of the court. The 
counsel had closed with the argument, and the judge proceeded 
in his charge to the jury. His remarks were rather favorable 
than otherwise to the prisoner. He dwelt upon his youth — 
his manliness — the seeming excellence of his education, and 
the propriety which had marked his whole behavior on trial. 
These he spoke of as considerations which must, of course, 
make the duty, which they had to perform, more severely 


DOOM. 


881 

painful to all. But they could not do away with the strong' 
and tenacious combination of circumstances against him. 
These were all closely knit, and all tended strongly to the 
conviction of the guilt of the accused. Still they were circum- 
stantial ; and the doubts of the jury were, of course, so many 
arguments on the side of mercy. He concluded. 

But the jury had no doubts. How should they doubt ? They 
deliberated, indeed, for form’s sake, but not long. In a little 
while they returned to their place, and the verdict was read by 
the clerk. 

“Guilty.” 

“ Guilty,” responded the prisoner, and for a moment his head 
dropped upon his clasped hands, and his frame shivered as with 
an ague. 

“Guilty — guilty — Oh, my father — Edith — Edith — have I 
lived for this ?” 

There was no other sign of human weakness. He arose with 
composure, and followed, with firm step, the officer to his dun- 
geon. His only thought was of the sorrows and the shame of 
others — of those of whom he had been the passion and the 
pii(Je — of that father’s memory and name, of whom he had 
been the cherished hope — of that maiden of whom he had been 
the cherished love. His firm, manly bearing won the esteem of 
all those who, nevertheless, at the same moment, had few if anj 
doubts of the justice of his doom. 


GUY RIVERS. 


m 

I 


CHAPTER XXXIV 

PRAYERS AND PROMISES. 

Ralph Colleton was once more in Lis dungeon — alone 
and without hope. For a moment during the progress of his 
trial, and at the appearance of Lucy, he deemed it possible that 
some providential fortune might work a change in the aspect of 
things, favorable to his escape from what, to his mind, was far 
worse than any thought of death, in the manner of his death. 
But when, after a moment of reflection, he perceived that the 
feminine delicacy of the maiden must suffer from any further 
testimony from her lips — when he saw that, most probably, in 
the minds of all who heard her naiTation, the circumstance of 
her appearance in his chamber and at such an hour of the night, 
and for any object, would be fatal to her reputation — when he 
perceived this consciousness, too, weighing down even to agony 
the soul of the still courageous witness — the high sense of 
honor which had always prompted him, not less than that 
chivalrous consideration of the sex taught in the south among 
the earliest lessons of society to its youth — compelled him to 
interpose, and prevent, if possible, all further utterance, which, 
though possibly all-important to him, would be fatally destruc- 
tive to her. 

He did so at his own self-sacrifice ! We have seen how the 
poor girl was silenced. The result was, that Ralph Colleton 
was again in his dungeon — hope shut out from its walls, and a 
fearful death and ignominy written upon them. When the 
officers attending him had retired — when he heard the bolt 
shot, and saw that the eyes of curiosity were excluded — the 
firm spirit fled which had supported him. There was a passing 
weakness of heart which overcame its energies and resolve, and 
be sunk down upon the single chair allotted to his prison. He 


PRAYERS AND PROMISES. 


383 


buried his face in his hands, and the warm tears gushed freely 
through his fingers. While thus weeping, like a very child, he 
heard the approach of footsteps without. In a moment he re- 
covered all his manliness and calm. The traces of his weak- 
ness were sedulously brushed from his cheeks, and the handker- 
chief employed for the purpose studiously put out of sight. lie 
was not ashamed of the pang, but he was not willing that other 
eyes should behold it. Such was the nature of his pride — the 
pride of strength, moral strength, and superiority over those 
weaknesses, which, however natural they may be, are neverthe- 
less not often held becoming in the man. 

It was the pedler, Bunce, who made his appearance — choos- 
ing, with a feature of higher characteristic than would usually 
have been allotted him, rather to cheer the prison hours of the 
unfortunate, than to pursue his own individual advantages; 
which, at such a time, might not have been inconsiderable. 
The worthy pedler was dreadfully disappointed in the result 
of his late adventure. He had not given himself any trouble 
to inquire into the nature of those proofs which Lucy Munro 
had assured him were in her possession ; but satisfied as much 
by his own hope as by her assurance, that all would be as he 
wished it, he had been elevated to a pitch of almost indecorous 
joy. which strongly contrasted with his present depression. He 
had little now to say in the way of consolation, and that little 
was coupled with so much that was unjust to the maiden, as to 
call forth, at length, the rebuke of Colleton. 

“Forbear on this subject, my good sir — she did what she 
could, and what she might have said would not have served me 
'much. It was well she said no more. Her willingness — her 
adventuring so much in my behalf — should alone be sufficient 
to protect her from everything like blame. But tell me, Bunce, 
what has become of her — -where is she gone, and who is now 
attending her ?” 

“ Why, they took her back to the old tavern. A great big 
woman took her there, and looked after her. I did go and had 
a sight on her, and there, to be sure, was Munro’s wife, thorgh 
her I did see. I’ll be sworn in amon^ the rocks where the^ shut 
us up.” 

“ was Munro there I” 


384 


GUY RIVERS. 


“Where — in tlie rocks 

“No — in the tavern? — You say his wife had come back— • 
did he trust himself tliere ? 

“ I rather guess not — seeing as how he’d stand a close chance 
of ’quaintance with the rope. No, neither him, nor Rivers, nor 
any of the. regulators — thank the powers — ain’t to be seen 
nowhere. They’re all off — up into the nation, I guess, or off, 
down in Alabam by this time, clear enough.” 

“ And who did you see at the rocks, and what men were they 
that made you prisoners ?” 

“ Men — if I said men, I was ’nation out, I guess. Did I say 
men?” 

“ I understood you so.” 

“ ’Twan’t men at all. Nothing better than women, and no 
small women neither. Didn’t see a man in the neighborhood, 
but Chub, and he ain’t no man neither.” 

“ What is he ?” 

“Why, for that matter, he’s neither one thing nor another — 
nothing, no how. A pesky little creature ! What they call a 
hobbe-de-hoy will suit for his name sooner than any other that 
I know on. For he ain’t a man and he ain’t a boy; but jest a 
short, half-grown up chunk of a fellow, with bunchy shoulders, 
and a big head, with a mouth like an oven, and long lap ears 
like saddle flaps.” 

In this manner the pedler informed Ralph of all those pre- 
vious particulars with which he had not till then been made 
acquainted. This having been done, and the dialogue having 
fairly reached its termination — and the youth exhibiting some 
strong symptoms of weariness — Bunce took his departure for 
the present, not, however, without again proffering his services. 
These Ralph did not scruple to accept — giving him, at the 
same time, sundry little commissions, and among them a mes- 
sage of thanks and respectful consideration to Miss Munro. 

She, in the meanwhile, had, upon fainting in the -court-room, 
been borne off in a state of utter insensibility, to the former 
residence of Munro, to which place, as the pedler has already 
informed us, the wife of the landlord had that very morning 
returned, resuming, precisely as before, all the previous order 
of her domestic arrangements. The reason for this return may” 


PRAYERS AND PROMISES. 




bo readily assigned. The escape of the pedler and of Lucy 
from their place of temporary confinement had completely upset 
all the prior arrangements of the outlaws. They now con- 
ceived it no longer safe as a retreat ; and failing as they did to 
overtake the fugitives, it was deteimined that, in the disguises 
which had been originally suggested for their adoption, they 
should now venture into the village, as many of them as were 
willing, to obtain that degree of information which would enable 
them to judge what further plans to adopt. 

As Rivers had conjectured, Chub Williams, so far from taking 
for the village, had plunged deeper into the woods, flying to 
former and well known haunts, and regarding the face of man 
as that of a natural enemy. The pedler had seen none but 
women, or those so disguised as such as to seem none other than 
what they claimed to be — while Lucy had been permitted to 
see none but her uncle and aunt, and one or two persons she 
had never met before. 

Under these circumstances. Rivers individually felt no appre- 
hensions that his wild refuge would be searched; but Munro, 
something older, less sanguine, and somewhat more timid than 
his colleague, determined no longer to risk it ; and having, as 
we have seen, effectually checked the utterance of that evidence 
which, in the unconscious excitation of his niece, must have 
involved him more deeply in the meshes of the law, besides 
indicating his immediate and near neighborhood, he made his 
way, unobserved, from the village, having first provided for her 
safety, and as he had determined to keep out of the way him- 
self, having brought his family back to their old place of abode. 

He had determined on this course from a variety of consid- 
erations. Nothing, he well knew, could affect his family. He 
had always studiously kept them from any participation in his 
offences. The laws had no terror for them ; and, untroubled by 
any process against him, they could still remain and peaceably 
possess his property, of which he well knew, in the existing 
state of society in the South, no legal outlawry of himself would 
ever avail to deprive them. This could not have been his hope 
in their common flight. Such a measure, too, would only have 
impeded his progress, in the event of his pursuit, and have bur- 
dened him with encumbrances which would perpetually involve 

17 


886 


GUY RIVERS. 


him in difficulty. He calculated differently his chances. His 
hope was to be able, when the first excitements had overblown, 
to return to the village, and at least quietly to effect such a dis- 
position of his property, which was not inconsiderable, as to 
avoid the heavy and almost entire loss which would necessarily 
follow any other determination. 

In all this, however, it may be remarked that the reasonings 
of Rivers, rather than his own, determined his conduct. That 
more adventurous ruffian had, from his superior boldness and 
greater capacities in general, acquired a singular and large in- 
fluence over his companion : he governed him, too, as much by 
his desire of gain as by any distinct superiority which he him- 
self possessed; he stimulated his avarice with the promised re- 
sults of their future enterprises in the same region after the pas- 
sing events were over ; and thus held him still in that fearful 
bondage of subordinate villany whose inevitable tendency is to 
make the agent the creature, and finally the victim. The gripe 
which, in a moral sense, and with a slight reference to charac- 
ter, Rivers had upon the landlord, was as tenacious as that of 
death — but with this difference, that it was death prolonged 
through a fearful, and, though not a protracted, yet much too 
long a life. 

The determination of Munro was made accordingly; and, 
following hard upon the flight of Lucy from the rocks, we find 
the landlady quietly reinstated in her old home as if nothing 
had happened. Munro did not, however, return to the place of 
refuge ; he had no such confidence in circumstances as Rivers ; 
his fears had grown active in due proportion with his increase 
of years ; and, with the increased familiarity with crime, had 
grown up in his mind a corresponding doubt of all persons, and 
an active suspicion which trusted nothing. His abode in all 
this time was uncertain ; he now slept at one deserted lodge, 
and now at another; now in the disguise of one and now of 
another character; now on horseback, now on foot — but in no 
two situations taking the same feature or disguise. In the 
night-time he sometimes adventured, though with great caution, 
to the village, and made inquiries. On all hands, he heard of 
nothing but tlie preparations making against the clan of which 
he was certainly one of the prominent heads. The state wai 


i^ilAYERS AND PROMISES. 


887 


toused iuto activity, and a proclamation of the governor, offer* 
ing a high reward for the discovery and detention of any per- 
sons having a hand in the murder of the guard, was on one occa- 
sion put iuto his own hands. All these things made caution 
necessary, and, though venturing still very considerably at times, 
he was yet seldom entirely off his guard. 

Rivers kept close in the cover of his den. That den had 
numberless ramifications, however, known only to himself ; ani 
his calm indifference was the result of a conviction that it would 
require two hundred men, properly instructed, and all at the 
same moment, to trace him through its many sinuosities. He 
too, sometimes, carefully disguised, penetrated into the village, 
but never much in the sight of those who were not bound to 
him by a common danger. To Lucy he did not. appear on such 
occasions, though he did to the old lady, and even at the family 
fireside. 

Lucy, indeed, had eyes for few objects, and thoughts but for 
one. She sat as one stupified with danger, yet sufficiently con- 
scious of it as to be conscious of nothing besides. She was be- 
wildered with the throng of horrible circumstances which had 
been so crowded on her mind and memory in so brief a space 
of time. At one moment she blamed her own weakness in suf- 
fering the trial of Ralph to progress to a consummation which 
she shuddered to reflect upon. Had she a right to withhold her 
testimony — testimony so important to the life and the honor of 
one person, because others might suffer in consequence — those 
others the real criminals, and he the innocent victim 1 and lov- 
ing him as she did, and hating or fearing his enemies 1 Had 
she performed her duty in suffering his case to go to judgment ? 
and such a judgment — so horrible a doom! Should she now 
suffer it to go to its dreadful execution, when a word from her 
would stay the hand of the officer, and save the life of the con- 
demned ? But would such be its effect ? TVhat credence would 
be given now to one who, in the hall of justice, had sunk down 
like a criminal herself — withholding the truth, and contradict- 
ing every word of her utterance ? To whom, then, could she 
apply who would hear her plea, even though she boldly nar- 
rated all the truth, in behalf of the prisoner 1 She maddened 
as she thought on all these difficulties ; her blood grew fevered. 


GUI tfimis. 


m 

a thick Laze overspread her senses, and she raved at last in tlie 
most wild delirium. 

. Some days went by in her unconsciousness, and when she at 
length grew calm —when the fever of her mind had somewhat 
subsided — she opened her eyes and found, to her great sur- 
prise, her uncle sitting beside her couch. It was midnight; 
and this was the hour he had usually chosen when making his 
visits to his family. In these stolen moments, his attendance 
was chiefly given to that hapless orphan, whose present sufPer- 
ings he well knew were in great part attributable to himself. 

The thought smote him, for, in reference to her, all feeling 
had not yet departed from his soul. There was still a lurking 
sensibility — a lingering weakness of humanity — one of those 
pledges which nature gives of her old afiiliation, and which she 
never entirely takes away from the human heart. There are 
still some strings, feeble and wanting in energy though they be, 
which bind even the most reckless outcast in some little partic- 
ular to humanity ; and, however time, and the world’s variety 
of circumstance, may have worn them and impaired their firm 
hold, they still sometimes, at unlooked-for hours, regrapple the 
long-rebellious subject, and make themselves felt and understood 
as in the first moments of their creation. 

Such now was their resumed sway with Munro. While his 
niece — the young, the beautiful, the virtuous — so endowed by 
nature — so improved by education — so full of those fine graces, 
beyond the reach of any art — lay before him insensible — her 
fine mind spent in incoherent ravings — her gentle form racked 
with convulsive shudderings — the still, small, monitorial voice, 
unheard so long, spoke out to him in terrible rebukings. He 
felt in those moments how deeply he had been a criminal ; how 
much, not of his own, he had appropriated to himself and sacri- 
ficed ; and how sacred a trust he had abused, in the person of 
the delicate creature before him, by a determination the most 
cruel and perhaps unnecessary. 

Days had elapsed in her delirium ; and such were his newly- 
awakened feelings, that each night brought him, though at con- 
siderable risk, an attendant by her bed. His hand administered 
— his eyes watched over ; and, in the new duties of the parent, 
be ac(][uired a new feeling of duty and domestic love, the pleas- 


PRAYERS AND PROMISES. 


389 


ures of which he had never felt before. But she grew conscious 
at last, and her restoration relieved his mind of one apprehension 
which had sorely troubled it. Her condition, during her illness, 
was freely described to her. But she thought not of herself— 
she had no thought for any other than the one for whom thoughts 
and prayers promised now to avail but little. 

“Uncle — ” she spoke at last — “you are here, and I rejoice 
to see you. I have much to say, much to beg at your hands : 
oh, let me not beg in vain ! Let me not find you stubborn to 
that which may not make me happy — I say not that, for happy 
I never look to he again — hut make me as much so as human 
power can make me. When — ” and she spoke hurriedly, while 
a strong and aguish shiver went through her whole frame— 
“ when is it said that he must die ?” 

He knew perfectly of whom she spoke, but felt reluctant to 
indulge her mind in a reference to the subject which had al- 
ready exercised so large an influence over it. But he knew 
little of the distempered heart, and fell into an error by no 
means uncommon with society. She soon convinced him of 
this, when his prolonged silence left it doubtful whether he con 
templated an answer. 

“ Why are you silent ? do you fear to speak ? Have no fears 
now. We have no time for fear. We must be active — ready 
— bold. Feel my hand : it trembles no longer. I am no longer 
a weak-hearted woman.” 

He again doubted her sanity, and spoke to her soothingly, 
seeking to divert her mind to indifferent subjects; but she 
smiled on the endeavor, which she readily understood, and put- 
ting aside her aunt, who began to prattle in a like strain, and 
with a like object, she again addressed her uncle. 

“ Doubt me not, uncle : I rave no longer. I am now calm — 
calm as it is possible for me to be, having such a sorrow as mine 
struggling at my heart. Why should I hide it from you ? It 
will not be hidden. I love him — love him as woman never 
loved man before — with a soul and spirit all unreservedly his, 
and with no thought in which he is not always the principal. 
I know that he loves another ; I know that the passion which I 
feel I must feel and cherish alone ; that it must burn itself away, 
though it burn away its dwelling-place. I am resigned to such 


890 


GUY RIVERS. 


a fate ; but I am not prepared for more. I can not bear tnat 
he too should die — and such a death! He must not die — he 
must not die, my uncle; though we save him — ay, save him — 
for another.” 

“Shame on you, my daughter! — how can you confess so 
much? Think on your sex — you are a woman — think on 
your youth !” Such was the somewhat strongly-worded rebuke 
of the old lady. 

“ I have thought on all — on everything. I feel all that you 
have said, and the thought and the feeling have been my mad- 
ness. I must speak, or I shall again go mad. I am not the 
tame and cold creature that the world calls woman. I have 
been differently made. I can love in the world’s despite. I 
can feel through the world’s freeze. I can dare all, when my 
soul is in it, though the world sneer in scorn and contempt. But 
what I have said, is said to you. I would not — no, not for 
worlds, that he should know I said it — not for worlds !” and her 
cheeks were tinged slightly, while her head rested for a single 
instant upon the pillow. 

“ But all this is nothing !” she started up, and again addressed 
herself to the landlord. “ Speak, uncle ! tell me, is there yet 
time — yet time to save him ? When is it they say he must die ?” 

“ On Friday next, at noon.” 

“And this — ?” 

“ Is Monday.” 

“ He must not die — no, not die, then, my uncle ! You must 
save him — you must save him ! You have been the cause of 
his doom : you must preserve him from its execution. You owe 
it him as a debt — you owe it me — you owe it to yomself. Be- 
lieve not, my uncle, that there is no other day than this — no 
other world — no other penalties than belong to this. You read 
no bible, but you have a thought which must tell you that there 
are worlds — there is a life yet to come. I know you can not 
doubt — you must not doubt — you must believe. Have a fear 
of its punishments, have a hope of its rewards, and listen to my 
prayer. You must save Ralph Colleton ; ask me not how — talk 
not of difficulties. Y ou must save him — you must — you must ! ’ ’ 

“Why, you forget, Lucy, my dear child — you forget that I 
too am in danger. This is midnight : it is only at this houi 


PRAYERS AND PROMISES. 


891 


that I can steal into tlie village ; and how, and in what man- 
der, shall I be able to do as you require 

“Oh, man! — man I — forgive me, dear uncle, I would not 
vex you ! But if there were gold in that dungeon — broad bars 
of gold, or shining silver, or a prize that would make you rich, 
would you ask me the how and the where 1 Would that clum- 
sy block, and those slight bars, and that dull jailer, be an ob- 
stacle that would keep you hack ? Would you need a poor 
girl like me to tell you that the blocks might be pierced — that 
the bars might be broken — that the jailer might be won to the 
mercy which would save ? You have strength— you have skill 
— you have the capacity, the power — there is but one thing 
wanting to my prayer — the will, the disposition !” 

“ You do me wrong, Lucy — great wrong, believe me. I feel 
for this young man, and the thought has been no less painful to 
me than to you, that my agency has contributed in great meas- 
ure to his danger. But what if I were to have the will, as you 
say — what if I went forward to the jailer and offered a bribe 
— would not the bribe which the state has offered for my arrest 
be a greater attraction than any in my gift ? To scale the walls 
and break the bars, or in any forcible manner to effect the pur- 
pose, I must have confederates, and in whom could I venture tc 
confide ? The few to whom I could intrust such a design are 
like myself, afraid to adventure or be seen, and such a desigi 
would be defeated by Rivers himself, who so much hates tht 
youth, and is bent on his destruction.” 

“ Speak not of — sa^ to him nothing — you must do i 

yourself if you do it all. You can effect much if you seriouslj 
determine. You can design, and execute all, and find readj 
and able assistance, if you once willingly set about it. I au 
not able to advise, nor will you need my counsel. Assure mt 
that you will make the effort — that you will put your whoh 
heart in it — and I have no fears — I feel confident of his escape.’ 

“ You think too highly of my ability in this respect. Ther 
was a time, Lucy, when such a design had not been so desperab 
but now — ” 

“Oh, not so desperate now, uncle, uncle — I could not live- 
not a moment^ were he to perish in that dreadful mannei 
Have I no claim u|)on your mercy — will you not do for mv 


392 


GUY RIVERS. 


what you would do for money — what you have done at the 
bidding of that dreadful wretch, Bivers ? Nay, look not away, 
I know it all — I know that you had the dagger of Colleton — 
that you put it into the hands of the wretch who struck the man 
— that you saw him strike — that you strove not to stop his 
hand. Fear you not I shall reveal it ? Fear you not ? — hut 1 
will not — I can not ! Yet this should be enough to make you 
strive in this service. Heard you not, too, when he spoke and 
stopped my evidence, knowing that my word would have saved 
him — rather than see me brought to the dreadful trial of tel- 
ling what I knew of that night — that awful night — when you 
both sought his life? Oh, I could love him for this — for this 
one thing — were there nothing else besides worthy of my 
love !” 

The incident to which she referred had not been unregarded 
by the individual she addressed, and while she spoke, his looks 
assumed a meditative expression, and he replied as in soliloquy, 
and in broken sentences : — 

“Co’dd I pass to the jail unperceived — gain admittance — 
then — hut who would grapple with the jailer — how manage 
that?— let me see — hut no — no — that is impossible !” 

“What is impossible? — nothing is impossible in this work, 
if you will but try. Do not hesitate, dear uncle — it will look 
easier- if you will reflect upon it. You will see many ways of 
bringing it about. You can get aid if you want it. There’s the 
pedler, whous quite willing, and Chub — Chub will do much, if 
you can only find him out.” 

The landlord smiled as she named ih^se two accessaries 
“Bunce — why, what could the fellow do? — he’s not the mar 
for such service; now Chub might be of value, if he’d only fol 
low orders : hut that he won’t do. I don’t see how we’re tc 
work it, Lucy — it looks more difficult the more I think on it.” 

“ Oh, if it’s only difficult — if it’s not impossible — it will be 
done. Do not shrink back, uncle ; do not scruple. The youth 
has done you no wrong — you have done him much. You have 
brought him where he is, he would have been safe otherwise 
You must save him. Save him, uncle — and hear me as I prom 
ise. You may then do with me as you please. From that mo 
ment I am your slave, and then, if it must be so — if you wiO 


phayehs and promises. 


393 


then require it, I am willing then to become Aw slave too — him 
whom you have served so faithfully and so unhappily for so 
long a season.” 

“ Of whom speak you 

“ Guy Rivers ! yes — I shall then obey you, though the fu- 
neral come with the bridal.” 

“ Lucy !” 

“It is true. I hope not to survive it. It will be a worse 
destiny to me than even the felon death to the youth whom I 
would save. Do with me as you please then, hut let him not 
perish. Rescue him from the doom you have brought upon 
him — and oh, my uncle, in that other world — if there we meet 
- — the one good deed shall atone, in the thought of my poor fa- 
ther, for the other most dreadful sacrifice to which his daughter 
now resigns herself.” 

The stern man was touched. He trembled, and his lips 
quivered convulsively as he took her hand into his own. Re- 
covering himself, in a firm tone, as solemn as that which she 
had preserved throughout the dialogue, he replied — 

“ Hear me, Lucy, and believe what I assure you. I will try 
to save this youth. I will do what I can, my poor child, to re- 
deem the trust of your father. I have been no father to you 
heretofore, not much of one, at least, hut it is not too late, 
and I will atone. I will do my best for Colleton — the thing 
is full of difficulty and danger, but I will try to save him. All 
this, however, must he unknown — not a word to anybody; 
and Rivers must not see you happy, or he will suspect. Better 
not be* seen — still keep to your chamber, and rest assured that 
all will be done, in my power, for the rescue of the youth.” 

“Oh, now you are, indeed, my father — yet — uncle, shall I 
see you at the time when it is to be done ? Tell me at what 
moment you seek his deliverance, that I may be upon my 
knees. Yet say not to him that I have done anything or said 
anything which has led to your endeavors. He will not think 
so well of me if you do ; and, though he may not love, I would 
have him think always of me as if — as if I were a woman.” 

She was overcome with exertion, and in the very revival ol 
her hope, her strength was exhausted ; but she had sunk into a 
sweet sleep ere her uncle left the apartment. 

17 * 


394 


GUY BIVEfifi. 


CHAPTER XXXV 

NEW PARTIES ON THE STAGE. 

A DAY more had elapsed, and the bustle in the little village 
was increased by the arrival of other travellers. A new light 
came to the dungeon of Ralph Colleton, in the persons of his 
uncle and cousin Edith, whom his letters, at his first arrest, had 
apprized of his situation. They knew that situation only in 
part, however ; and the first intimation of his doom was that 
which he himself gave them. 

The meeting was full of a painful pleasure. The youth him- 
self was firm — muscle and mind all over; but deeply did his 
uncle reproach himself for his precipitation and sternness, and 
the grief of Edith, like all deep grief, was dumb, and had no 
expression. There was but the sign of wo — of wo inexpressi- 
ble — in the ashy lip, the glazed, the tearless and half-wander- 
ing eye, and the convulsive shiver, that at intervals shook her 
whole frame, like strong and sudden gusts among the foliage. 
The youth, if he had any at such an hour, spared his reproaches. 
He narrated in plain and unexaggerated language, as if engaged 
in the merest narration of commonplace, all the circmnstances 
of nis trial. He pointed ut the difficulties of his situation, to 
his mind insuperable, and strove to prepare the minds of those 
who heard, for the final and saddest trial of all, even as his own 
mind was prepared. In that fearful work of preparation, the 
spirit of love could acknowledge no restraining influence, and 
never was embrace more fond than that of Ralph and the 
maiden. Much of his uncle’s consolation was found in the bet- 
ter disposition which he now entertained, though at too late a 
day, in favor of their passion. He would now willingly con- 
sent to all. 

“ Had you not been so precipitate, Ralph—” he said, “ had 
you not been so proud— had you thought at all, or given me 


NEW PARTIES ON THE STAGE. 


395 


time for thought, all this trial had been spared us. Was I not 
irritated by otlier things when I spoke to you unkindly 1 You 
knew not how much I had been chafed — you should not have 
been so hasty.’' 

“ No more of this, uncle, I pray you. I was wrong and rash, 
and I blame you not. I have nobody but myself to reproach. 
Speak not of the matter ; but, as the best preparation for all 
that is to come, let your thought banish me rather from con- 
templation. Why should the memory of so fair a creature as 
this be haunted by a story such as mine ? Why should she 
behold, in her mind’s eye, for ever, the picture of my dying 
agonies — the accursed scaffold — the — ” and the emotion of 
his soul, at the subject of his own contemplation^ choked him 
in his utterance, while Edith, half-fainting in his anns, prayed 
his forbearance. 

“ Speak not thus — not of this, Ralph, if you would not have 
me perish. I am fearfully sick now, my head swims, and all 
is commotion at my heart. Not water — not water — give me 
tiope — consolation. Tell me that there is still some chance — 
some little prospect — that some noble people are striving in 
your cause — that somebody is gone in search of evidence — in 
searcli of hope. Is there no circumstance which may avail 1 
Said you not something of — did you not tell me of a person 
who could say for you that which would have done much to- 
wards your escape ] A woman, was it not — speak, who is she 
— let me go to her — she will not refuse to tell me all, and do 
all, if she be a woman.” 

Ralph assured her in the gentlest manner of the hopelessness 
of any such application ; and the momentary dream which her 
own desires had conjured into a promise, as suddenly subsided, 
leaving her to a full consciousness of her desolation. Her fa- 
ther at length found it necessary to abridge the interview 
Every moment of its protraction seemed still more to unsettle 
tlie understanding of his daughter. She spoke wildly and con- 
fusedly, and in that thought of separation which the doom of 
her lover perpetually forced upon her, she contemplated, in all 
its fearful extremities, her own. She was borne away half de- 
lirious— the feeling of wo something blunted, however, by the 
mental unconsciousness following its realization. 


396 


GUY RIVERS. 


Private apartments were readily found them in the village, 
and having provided good attendance for his daughter, Colonel 
Colleton set out, though almost entirely hopeless, to ascertain 
still farther the particulars of the case, and to see what might 
be done in behalf of one of whose innocence he felt perfectly 
assured. He knew Ralph too well to suspect him of falsehood ; 
and the clear narrative which he had given, and the manly 
and unhesitating account of all particulars having any bearing 
on the case which had fallen from his lips, he knew, from all 
his previous high-mindedness of character, might safely he re- 
lied on. Assured of this himself, he deemed it not improbable 
that something might undergo development, in a course of ac- 
tive inquiry, which might tend to the creation of a like convic- 
tion in the minds of those in whom rested the control of life 
and judgment. 

His first visit was to the lawyer, from whom, however, he 
could procure nothing, besides being compelled, without possi- 
bility of escape, to listen to a long string of reproaches against 
his nephew. 

“ I could, and would have saved him. Colonel Colleton, if the 
power were in mortal,” was the self-sufficient speech of the little 
man ; “ but he would not— he broke in upon me when the very 
threshold was to be passed, and just as I was upon it. Thingt 
were in a fair train, and all might have gone well but for his 
boyish interruption. I would have come over the jury with a 
settler. I would have made out a case, sir, for their considera- 
tion, which every man of them would have believed he himself 
saw. I would have shown your nephew, sir, riding down the 
narrow trace, like a peaceable gentleman ; anon, sir, you should 
have seen Forrester coming along full tilt after him. Forrester 
should have cried out with a whoop and a right royal oath ; then 
Mr. Colleton would have heard him, and turned round to re- 
ceive him. But Forrester is drunk, you know, and will not 
understand the young man’s civilities. He blunders out a vol- 
ley of curses right and left, and bullies Master Colleton for a 
fight, which he declines. But Forrester is too drunk to mind 
all that. Without more ado, he mounts the young gentleman 
and is about to pluck out his eyesj when he feels the dirk in his 
ribs, and then they cut loose, fle gets the dirk from Mastet 


NEW PARTIES ON TKV mOB. 


S97 


Colleton, and makes at him ; but he picks up a hatchet that 
happens to be lying about, and drives at his heal, and down 
drops Fon’ester, as he ought to, dead as a door-nail.” 

“ Good heavens ! and why did you not bring these facts for 
ward ? They surely could not have condemned him under thet' 
circumstances.” 

“ Bring them forward ! To be sure, I would have done sv 
but, as I tell you, just when on the threshold, at the very gi\ 
trance into the transaction, up pops this hasty young fellow—* 
I’m sorry to call your nephew so. Colonel Colleton — hut the 
fact is, he owes his situation entirely to himself. I would have 
saved him, but he was obstinately bent on not being saved ; and 
just as I commenced the affair, up he pops and tells me, before 
all the people, that I know nothing about it. A pretty joke, 
indeed. I know nothing about it, and it my business to know 
all about it. Sir, it ruined him. I saw, from that moment, 
how the cat would jump. I pitied the poor fellow, but what 
more could I do ?” 

“But it is not too late — we can memorialize the governor, 
we can put these facts in form, and by duly showing them with 
the accompanying proofs, we can obtain a new trial — a respite.” 

“ Can’t be done now — it’s too late. Had I been let alone — 
had not the youth come between me and my duty — I would 
have saved him, sir, as under God, I have saved hundreds be- 
fore. But it’s too late now.” 

“ Oh, surely not too late ! with the facts that you mention, if 
you will give me the names of the witnesses furnishing them, so 
that I can obtain their affidavits — ” 

“ Witnesses ! — what witnesses ?” 

“ Why, did you not tell me of the manner in which Forrester 
assaulted my nephew, and forced upon him what he did as mat- 
ter of self-defense ? Where is the proof of this ?” 

“ Oh, proof ! Why, you did not think that was the true 
state of the case — that was only the case I was to present to 
the jury.” 

“And there is, then, no evidence for what you have said?” 

“Not a tittle, sir. Evidence is scarcely necessary in a case 
like this, sir, where the state proves more than you can possibly 
disprove. Your only hope, sir is to present a plausible C(mjec- 


398 


GUY RlVEHSi 


ture to the jury. Just set their fancies to work, and they have 
a taste most perfectly dramatic. What you leave undone, they 
will do. Where you exhibit a blank, they will supply the 
words wanting. Only set them on trail, and they’ll tree the 
’possum. They are noble hands at it, and, as I now live and 
talk to you, sir, not one of them who heard the plausible story 
which I would have made out, but would have discovered more 
common sense and reason in it than in all the evidence you could 
possibly have given them. Because, you see, I’d have given 
them a reason for everything. Look, how I should have made 
out the story. Mr. Colleton and Forrester are excellent friends, 
and both agree to travel together. Well, they’re to meet at 
the forks by midnight. In the meantime, Forrester goes to see 
his sweetheart, Kate Allen — a smart girl, by the way, colonel, 
and well to look on. Parting’s a very uncomfortable thing, 
now, and they don’t altogether like it. Kate cries, and Forres- 
ter storms. Well, must come comes at last. They kiss, and 
are off— different ways. Well, grief’s but a dry companion, 
and to get rid of him, Forrester takes a drink ; still grief holds 
on, and then he takes another and another, until grief gets off 
at last, but not before taking with him full half, and not the 
worst half either, of the poor fellow’s senses. What then? 
Why, then he swaggers and swears at everything, and particu- 
larly at your nephew, who, you see, not knowing his condition, 
swears at him for keeping him waiting — ” 

“ Ralph Colleton never swears, Mr. Pippin,” said the colonel, 
grimly. 

“ Well, well, if he didn’t swear then, he might very well have 
sworn, and I’ll be sworn but he did on that occasion ; and it was 
very pardonable too. Well, he swears at the drunken man, not 
knowing his condition, and the drunken man rolls and reels like 
a rowdy, and gives it to him back, and then they get at it. Your 
nephew, who is a stout colt, buffets him well for a time, but For- 
rester, who is a mighty, powerful built fellow, he gets the bet- 
ter in the long run, and both come down together in the road. 
Then Forrester, being uppermost, sticks his thumb *into Master 
Colleton’s eye — the left eye, I think, it was — yes, the left eye 
it was — and the next moment it would have been out, when 
your nephew, not liking it, whipped out his dirk, and, ’fore 


NEW PARTIES ON THE STAGE. 


399 


Forrester could say Jack Robinson, it was playing about in his 
ribs ; and, then comes the hatchet part, just as I told it you be- 
fore.” 

“ And is none of this truth ?” 

“ God bless your soul, no ! Do you suppose, if it was the 
truth, it would have taken so long a time in telling ? I wouldn’t 
have wasted the breath on it. The witnesses would have done 
that, if it were true ; but in this was the beauty of my art, and 
had I been permitted to say to the jury what I’ve said to you, 
the young man would have been clear. It wouldn’t have been 
gospel, but where’s the merit of a lawyer, if he can’t go through 
a bog ? This is one of the sweetest and most delightful features 
of the profession. Sir, it is putting the wings of fiction to the 
lifeless and otherwise immovable body of the fact.” 

Colonel Colleton was absolutely stunned by the fertility and 
volubility of the speaker, and after listening for some time 
longer, as long as it was possible to procure from him anything 
which might be of service, he took his departure, bending his 
way next to the wigwam, in which, for the time being, the ped- 
ler had taken up his abode. It will not be necessary that wo 
should go with him there, as it is not probable tliat anything 
materially serving his purpose or ours will be adduced from the 
narrative of Bunco. In the meantime, we will turn our atten- 
tion to a personage, whose progress must correspond, in all re- 
spects, with that of our narrative. 

Guy Rivers had not been unapprized of the presence of the 
late comers at the village. He had his agents at work, who 
marked the progress of things, and conveyed their intelligence 
to him with no qualified fidelity. The arrival of Colonel Colle- 
ton and his daughter had been made known to him within a few 
hours after its occurrence, and the feelings of the outlaw were 
of a nature the most complex and contradictory. Secure with- 
in his den, the intricacies of which were scarcely known to any 
but himself, he did not study to restrain those emotions which 
had prompted him to so much unjustifiable outrage. With no 
eye to mark his actions or to note his speech, the guardian 
watchfulness which had secreted so much, in his association 
with others, was taken off ; and we see much of that heart and 
those 'W ild principles of its government, the mysteries of which 


400 


QVY RIVERS. 


contain so much that it is terrible to see. Slowly, and for t 
long time after the receipt of the above-mentioned intelligence, 
he strode up and down the narrow cell of his retreat ; all pas- 
sions at sway and contending for the mastery — sudden action 
and incoherent utterance occasionally diversifying the otherwise 
monotonous movements of his person. At one moment, he would 
clinch his hands with violence together, while an angry maledic- 
tion would escape through his knitted teeth — at another, a de- 
moniac smile of triumph, and a fierce laugh of gratified, malig- 
nity would ring through the apartment, coming bark upon him 
in an echo, which would again restore him to consciousness, and 
bring back the silence so momentarily banished. 

“ They are here ; they have come to witness his degradation 
— to grace my triumph — to feel it, and understand my revenge. 
We will see if the proud beauty knows me now — if she yet 
continues to discard and to disdain me. I have her now upon 
my own terms. She will not refuse ; I am sure of her ; I shall 
conquer her proud heart ; I will lead her in chains, the heaviest 
chains of all — the chains of a dreadful necessity. He must die 
else ! I will howl it in her ears with the voice of the wolf ; I 
will paint it before her eyes with a finger dipped in blood and 
in darkness ! She shall see him carried to the gallows ; I 
shall make her note the halter about his neck — that neck, 
which, in her young thought, her arms were to have encircled 
only ; nor shall she shut her eyes upon the last scene, nor close 
her ears to the last groan of my victim ! She shall see and 
hear all, or comply with all that I demand ! It must be done ; 
but how? How shall I see her? how obtain her presence? 
how command her attention ? Pshaw ! shall a few beardless 
soldiers keep me back, and baffle me in this ? Shall I dread 
the shadow now, and shrink back when the sun shines out that 
makes it? I will not fear. I will see her. I will bid defiance 
to them all ! She shall know my power, and upon one condi- 
tion only will I use it to save him. She will not dare to refuse 
the condition ; she will consent ; she will at last be mine : and 
for this I will do so much — go so far — ay, save him whom I 
would yet be so delighted to destroy !” 

Night came ; and in a small apartment of one of the lowliest 
dwellings of Chestatee, Edith and her father sat in the deepest 


NEW PARTIES ON THE STAGE. 


401 


melancholy, conjuring up perpetually in their m ,;ds those im- 
ages of sorrow so natural to their present situation. It was 
somewhat late, and they had just returned from an evening 
visit to the dungeon of Ralph Colleton. The mind of the youth 
was in far better condition than theirs, and his chief employment 
had been in preparing them for a similar feeling of resignation 
with himself. He had succeeded but indifferently. They strove 
to appear firm, in order that he should not be less so than they 
found him ; but the effort was very perceptible, and the recoil 
of their dammed-up emotions was only so much more fearful 
and overpowering. The strength of Edith had been severely 
tried, and her head now rested upon the bosom of her father, 
whose arms were required for her support, in a state of feeble- 
ness and exhaustion, leaving it doubtful, at moments, whethei 
the vital principle had not itself utterly departed. 

At this period the door opened, and a stranger stood abruptly 
before them. His manner was sufficiently imposing, though his 
dress was that of the wandering countryman, savoring of the 
jockey, and not much unlike that frequently worn by such way- 
farers as the stagedriver and carrier of the mails. He had on 
an overcoat made of buckskin, an article of the Indian habit ; 
a deep fringe of the same material hung suspended from two 
heavy capes that depended from the shoulder. His pantaloons 
were made of buckskin also ; a foxskin cap rested slightly upon 
his head, rather more upon one side than the other ; while a 
whip of huge dimensions occupied one of his hands. Whiskers, 
of a bushy form and most luxuriant growth, half-obscured his 
cheek, and the mustaches were sufficiently small to lead to the 
inference that the wearer had only recently decided to suffer 
the region to grow wild. A black-silk handkerchief, wrapped 
loosely about his neck, completed the general outline ; and the 
tout ensemble indicated one of those dashing blades, so frequently 
to be encountered in the southern country, who, despising the 
humdrum monotony of regular life, are ready for adventure — 
lads of the turf, the muster-ground, the general affray — the men 
who can whip their weight in wild-cats — whose general rule it 
is to knock down and drag out. 

Though startling at first to both father and daughter, the mau- 
net of the intruder was such as to fdi’bid any further alarm than 


402 


GUY RIVERS. 


was incidental to his first abrupt appearance. His conduct wai 
respectful and distant — closely observant of the proprieties in 
bis address, and so studiously guarded as to satisfy them, at the 
very outset, that nothing improper was intended. Still, his en- 
trance without any intimation was sufficiently objectionable to 
occasion a hasty demand from Colonel Colleton as to the mean- 
ing of his intrusion. 

“ None, sir, is intended, which may not be atoned for,” was 
the reply. “ T had reason to believe, Colonel Colleton, that the 
present melancholy circumstances of your family were such as 
might excuse an intrusion which may have the effect of making 
them less so ; which, indeed, may go far toward the preven- 
tion of that painful event which you now contemplate as cer- 
tain.” 

The words were electrical in their effect upon both father 
and daughter. The former rose from his chair, and motioned 
the stranger to be seated ; while the daughter, rapidly rising 
also, with an emotion which gave new life to her form, inquired 
breathlessly — 

“Speak, sir! say — how I” — and she lingered and listened 
with figure bent sensibly forward, and hand uplifted and mo- 
tionless, for reply. The person addressed smiled with visible 
effort, while slight shades of gloom, like the thin clouds fleeting 
over the sky at noonday, obscured at intervals the otherwise 
subdued and even expression of his countenance. He looked 
at the maiden while speaking, but his words were addressed to 
her father. 

“ I need not tell you, sir, that the hopes of your nephew are 
gone. There is no single chance upon which hq can rest a 
doubt whereby his safety may be secured. The doom is pro- 
nounced, the day is assigned, and the executioner is ready.” 

“ Is your purpose insult, sir, that you tell us this ?” was the 
rather fierce inquiry of the colonel. 

“ Calmly, sir,” was the response, iu a manner corresponding 
well with the nature of his words ; “ my purpose, I have already 
said, is to bring, or at least to offer, relief ; to indicate a course 
which may result in the safety of the young man whose life is 
now at hazard ; and to contribute, myself, to the object which 
I propose.” 


NEW PARTIES ON THE STAGE. 


403 


“ Go on — go on, sir, if you please, but spare all unnecessary 
reference to his situation,*^ sai^- the colonel, as a significant pres- 
sure of his arm on the part of his daughter motioned him to 
patience. The stranger proceeded : — 

“ My object in dwelling upon the youth’s situation was, if 
possible, by showing its utter hopelessness in every other re- 
spect, to induce you the more willingly to hear what I had to 
ofier, and to comply with certain conditions which must be pre- 
paratory to any development upon my part.” 

“ There is something strangely mysterious in this. I am 
willing to do anything and everything, in reason and without 
dishonor, for the safety of my nephew ; the more particularly 
as I believe him altogether innocent of the crime laid to his 
charge. More than this I dare not ; and I shall not be willing 
to yield to unknown conditions, prescribed by a stranger, what- 
ever be the object : but speak out at once, sir, and keep us no 
longer in suspense. In the meantime, retire, Edith, my child ; 
y/e gliall best transact this business in your absence. You will 
feel too acutely the consideration of this subject to listen to it in 
discussion. Go, my daughter.” 

But the stranger interposed, with a manner not to be ques- 
tioned : — 

“ Let her remain. Colonel Colleton ; it is, indeed^ only to her 
that I can reveal the mode and the conditions of the assistance 
which I am to offer. This was the preliminary condition of 
which I spoke. To her alone can my secret be revealed, and 
my conference must be entirely with her.” 

“But, sir, this is so strange — so unusual — so improper.” 

“ True, Colonel Colleton ; in the ordinary concerns, the every- 
day offices of society, it would be strange, unusual, and improp- 
er ; but these are not times, and this is not a region of the world, 
in which the common forms are to be insisted upon. You for-, 
get, sir, that you are in the wild abiding-place of men scarcely 
less wild — with natures as stubborn as the rocks, and with 
manners as uncouth and rugged as the woodland growth which 
surrounds us. I know as well as yourself that my demand is 
unusual; but such is my situation — such, indeed, the necessi- 
ties of the whole case, that there is no alternative. I am per- 
Buaded that youi* nephew can be saved ; I am willing to make 


404 


GUY RIVERS. 


an efiPortfor that purpose, and my conditions are to bo complied 
with : one of them you have heard — it is for your daughter to 
hear the rest.” 

The colonel still hesitated. He was very tenacious of those 
forms pf society, and of intercourse between the sexes, which 
are rigidly insisted upon in the South, and his reluctance w^as 
manifest. 'While he yet hesitated, the stranger again spoke : 

“ The condition which I have proposed, sir, is unavoidable, 
but I ask you not to remove from hearing : the adjoining room 
is not so remote but that you can hear any appeal wdiicli your 
daughter may be pleased to make. Her call would reach your 
ears without effort. My own security depends, not less than 
that of your nephew, upon your compliance with the condition 
under which only will I undertake to save him.” 

These suggestions prevailed. Suspecting the stranger to be 
one whose evidence wmuld point to the true criminal, himself an 
offender, he at length assented to the arrangement, and, after a 
few’ minutes’ further dialogue, he left the room. As he retired, 
the stranger carefully locked the door, a movement which some- 
what alarmed the maiden ; but the respectful manner with which 
he approached her, and her own curiosity not less than interest 
in the progress of the event, kept her from* the exhibition of any 
apprehensions. 

The stranger drew nigh her. His glances, though still re- 
spectful, were fixed, long and searchingly, upon her faee. He 
seemed to study all its features, comparing them, as it would 
seem, with his- own memories. At length, as with a sense of 
maidenly propriety, she sternly turned away, he addressed 
her : — 

“ Miss Colleton has forgotten me, it appears, though I have 
some claim to be an old acquaintance. I, at least, have a better 
memory for my friends — I have not forgotten he?'.'' 

tdith looked up in astonishment, but there w^as no recognition 
in her glance. A feeling of mortilied pride might have been 
detected in the expression of his countenance, as, with a tone 
of calm unconsciousness, she replied — 

“ You are certainly unremembered, if ever known, by me, sir. 
I am truly sorry to have forgotten one wdio styles himself my 
firicud/^ 


J>ARTtES ON THE STAGE. 


405 


“Who was — who is — or, rather, wh^ is now w liing again 
to be your friend, Miss Colleton,” was the immediate reply. 

“ Yes, and so I will gladly call you, sir, if you succeed in 
what you have promised.” 

“ I have yet promised nothing. Miss Colleton 

“ True, true ! hut you say you have the power, and surely 
would not withhold it at such a time. Oh, speak, sir ! tell me 
how you can serve us all, and receive my blessings and my 
thanks for ever.” 

“The reward is great — very great— hut not greater— per- 
haps not as great, as I may demand for my services. But we 
should not he ignorant of one another in such an affair, and at 
such a time as this. Is it true, then, that Miss Colleton has no 
memory which, at this moment, may spare me from the utter 
ance of a name, which perhaps she herself would not he alto 
gether willing to hear, and which it is not my policy to have 
uttered by any lips, and far less by my own ? Think — remem^ 
her- lady, and let me he silent still on that one subject. Let 
no feeling of pride influence the rejection of a remembrance 
which perhaps carries with it but few pleasant reflections.” 

Again were the maiden’s eyes fixed searchingly upon the 
speaker, and again, conflicting with the searching character of 
his own glance, were they withdrawn, under the direction of a 
high sense of modest dignity. She had made the effort at 
recognition — that was evident even to him — and had made it 
in vain. 

“Entirely forgotten — well! better that than t • have he,''U 
remembered as the thing I was. Would it were p )ssible to le 
equally forgotten by the rest — hut this, too, is vain and childish. 
She must he taught to remember me.” 

Thus muttered the stranger to himself ; assuming, however, 
an increased decision of manner at the conclusion, he approached 
her, and tearing from his cheeks the huge whiskers that had 
half-obscured them, he spoke in hurried accents : — 

“Look on me now. Miss Colleton — look on me now, and 
while you gaze upon features once sufficiently well known to 
your glance, let your memory hut retrace the few years when it 
was your fortune, and my fate, to spend a few months in Gwin- 
nett county. Do you remember the time — do you remember 


406 


GtJY RIVEllS. 


tliat bold, ambitious man, who, at that time, was the claimaUt 
for a public honor— who was distinguished by you in a dance, 
at the ball given on that occasion — who, maddened by wine, 
and a fierce passion which preyed upon him then, like a con 
Sliming fire, addressed you, though a mere child, and sought yo A 
for his bride, who — but I see you remember all !” 

“And are you then Creighton — Mr. Edward Creighton — 
and so changed !” And she looked upon him with an expres- 
sion of simple wonder. 

“Ay, that was the name once — but I have another now. 
Would you know me better — I am Guy B-ivers, where the 
name of Creighton must not again be spoken. 'It is the name 
of a felon — of one under doom of outlawry — whom all men 
are privileged to slay. I have been hunted from society — I 
can no longer herd with my fellows — I am without kin, and 
am almost without kind. Yet, base and black with crime — 
doomed by mankind — banished all human abodes — the slave 
of fierce passions — the leagued with foul associates, I dared, in 
your girlhood, to love you ; and, more daring still, I dare to 
love you now. Fear not, lady — you are Edith Colleton to me ; 
and worthless, and vile, and reckless, though I have become, 
for you I can hold no thought which would behold you other 
than you are — a creature for worship rather than for love. As 
such I would have you still ; and for this purpose do I seek you 
now. I know your feeling for this young man — I saw it then, 
when you repulsed me. I saw that you loved each other, 
though neither of you were conscious of the truth. You love 
him now — you would not have him perish — I know well how 
you regard him, and I come, knowing this, to make hard con- 
ditions with you for his life.” 

“ Keep me no longer in suspense — speak out, Mr. Creighton” 
— she cried, gaspingly. 

“ Rivers — Rivers — I would not hear the other — it was by 
that name I was driven from my fellows.” 

“Mr. Rivers, say what can be done — what am I to do — 
money — thanks, all that we can give shall be yours, so that you 
save him from this fate.” 

“ And who would speak thus for me 1 What fair pleader, 


NEW PARTIES ON THE STAGE. 407 

fearless of man^s opinion — that blights or blesses, without refer 
ence to right or merit — would so far speak for me !” 

“Many — many, Mr. Rivers — I hope there are many. 
Heaven knows, though I may have rejected in my younger 
days, your attentions, I know not many for whom I would 
more willingly plead and pray than yourself. I do remember 
now your talents and high reputation, and deeply do I regret 
the unhappy fortune which has denied them their fulfilment.” 

“ Ah, Edith Colleton, these words would have saved me once 
— now they are nothing, in recompense for the hopes which are 
for ever gone. Your thoughts are gentle, and may sooth all 
spirits but my own. But sounds that lull others, lull me no 
longer. It is not the music of a rich dream, or of a pleasant 
fancy, which may beguile me into pleasure. I am dead — dead 
as the cold rock — to their influence. The storm which blighted 
me has seared, and ate into the very core. I am like the tree 
through which the worm has travelled — it still stands, and 
there is foliage upon it, but the heart is eaten out, and gone. 
Your Avords touch me no longer as they did — I need something 
more than words and mere flatteries — flatteries so sweet even 
as those which come from your lips — are no longer powerful to 
bind me to your service. I can save the youth — I will save 
him, though I hate him ; but the conditions are fatal to your 
love for him.” 

There was much in this speech to offend and annoy the 
hearer ; but she steeled herself to listen, and it cost her some 
effort to reply. 

“ I can listen — I can hear all that you may say having refer- 
ence to him. I know not what you may intend ; I know not what 
you may demand for your service. But name your condition. 
All in honor — all that a maiden may grant and be true to her- 
self, all — all, for his life and safety.” 

“ Still, I fear. Miss Colleton— your love for him is not suffi- 
ciently lavish to enable your liberality to keep pace with the 
extravagance of my demand — ” 

“Hold, sir — on this particular there is no need of further 
speech. Whatever may be the extent of my regard for Ralph, 
it is enough that I am willing to do much, to sacrifice much 
in return for his rescue from this dreadful fate. Speak, there* 


408 


GtJT RIVERS. 


fore, your demand — spare no word — delay me, I pray, nd 
longer.” 

“ Hear me, then. As Creighton, I loved you years ago— -as 
Guy Rivers I love you still. The life of Ralph Colleton is for- 
feit — for ever forfeit — and a few days only interpose between 
him and eternity. I alone can save him — I can give him free- 
dom ; and, in doing so, I shall risk much, and sacrifice not a 
little. I am ready for this risk — I am prepared for every 
sacrifice — I will save him at all hazards from his doom, upon 
one condition !” 

“ Speak ! speak !” 

“ That you be mine — that you fly with me — that in the wild 
regions of the west, where I will build you a cottage and wor- 
ship you as my own forest divinity, you take up your abode 
with me, and be my wife. My wife! — all forms shall be com- 
plied with, and every ceremony which society may call for. 
Nay, shrink not back thus — ” seeing her recoil in horror and 
scorn at the suggestion — “beware how you defy me — think, 
that I have his life in my hands — think, that I can speak his 
doom or his safety — think, before you reply !” 

“There is no time necessary for thought, sir — none-— none. 
It can not be. I can not comply with the conditions which you 
propose. I would die first.” 

“ And he will die too. Be not hasty, Miss Colleton — remem- 
ber — it is not merely your death but his — his death upon the 
gallows — ” 

“ Spare me 1 spare me !” 

‘The halter — the crowd — the distorted limb— the racked 
frame — ” 

“ Horrible — horrible !” 

“Would -you see this — know this, and reflect upon the 
shame, the mental agony, far gi-eater than all, of such a death 
to him 

With a strong effort, she recovered her composure, though 
but an instant before almost convulsed — 

“ Have you no other terms, Mr. Rivers V* 

“ None — none. Accept them, and he lives — I will free him, 
as I promise. Refuse them — deny me, and he must die, and 
nothing may save him then.” 


NEW PARTIES ON THE STAGE. 


409 


“Then lie must die, sir! — we must both die — before we 
choose such terms. Sir, let me call my father. Our conference 
must end here. You have chosen a cruel office, but I can bear 
its infliction. You have tantalized a weak heart with hope, 
only to make it despair the more. But I am now strong, sir — 
stronger than ever — and we speak no more on this subject.” 

“ Yet pause — to relent even to-morrow may be too late. To 
night you must determine, or never.” 

“ I have already determined. It is impossible that I can de- 
termine otherwise. No more, sir I” 

“ There is one, lady — one young form — scarcely less beauti- 
ful than yourself, who would make the same — ay, and a far 
greater — sacrifice than this, for the safety of Ralph Colleton. 
One far less happy in his love than you, who would willingly 
die for him this hour. Would you be less ready than she is for 
such a sacrifice 1” 

“No, not less ready for death — as I live — not less willing to 
free him with the loss of my own life. But not ready for a sac- 
rifice like this — not ready for this.” 

“ You have doomed him !” 

“ Be it so, sir. Be it so. Let me now call my father.” 

“Yet think, ere it be too late — once gone, not even your 
words shall call me back.” 

“ Believe me, I shall not desire it.” 

The firmness of the maiden was finely contrasted with the dis- 
appointment of the outlaw. He was not less mortified with his 
own defeat than awed by the calm and immoveable bearing, 
the sweet, even dignity, which the discussion of a subject so 
trying to her heart, and the overthrow of all hope which her 
own decision mugt,have occasioned, had failed utterly to affect. 
He would have renewed his suggestions, bat while repeating 
them, a sudden commotion in the village — the trampling of 
feet — the buzz of many voices, and sounds of wide-spread con- 
fusion, contributed to abridge an interview already quite too 
long. The outlaw rushed out of the apartment, barely recog- 
nising, at his departure, the presence of Colonel Colleton, whom 
his daughter had now called in. The cause of the uproar we 
reserve for another chapter. 


18 


410 


GUY RIVERS. 


CHAPTER XXXVi 

PROPOSED RESCUE. 

The pledge which Munro had given to his niece in behalf of 
Colleton was productive of no small inconvenience to the former 
personage. Though himself unwilling — we must do him the 
justice to believe — that the youth should perish for a crime so 
completely his own, he had in him no great deal of that magnan- 
imous virtue, of itself sufficiently strong to have persuaded him 
to such a risk, as that which he had undertaken at the suppli- 
cation of Lucy. The more he reflected upon the matter, the 
more trifling seemed the consideration. With such a man, to 
reflect is simply to calculate. Money, now — the spoil or the 
steed of the traveller — would have been a far more decided 
stimulant to action. In regarding such an object, he certainly 
•would have overlooked much of the danger, and have been less 
heedful of the consequences. The selfishness of the motive 
would not merely have sanctioned, but have smoothed the en- 
terprise; and he thought too much with the majority — allow- 
ing for any lurking ambition in his mind — not to perceive that 
where there is gain there must he glory. 

None of these consolatory thoughts cama .to him in the con- 
templation of his present purpose. To adventure his own life 
— perhaps to exchange places with the condemned he proposed 
to save — though, in such a risk, he only sought to rescue the 
innocent from the doom justly due to himself — was a flight of 
generous ^impulse somewhat above the usual aim of the land- 
lord ; and, hut for the impelling influence of his niece — an in- 
fluence which, in spite of his own evil habits, swayed him be- 
yond his consciousness — we should not now have to record the 
almost redeer 'ing instance iii_tHe events of his life at thif 


PROPOSED RESCUE. 41 1 

period — tlie one virtue, contrasting with, if it could not lessen 
or relieve, the long tissue of his offences. 

There were some few other influences, however — if this 
were not enough — coupled with that of his niece’s entreaty, 
which gave strength and decision to his present determination. 
Munro was not insensible to the force of superior character, 
and a large feeling of veneration led him, from the first, to ob- 
serve the lofty spirit and high sense of honor which distin- 
guished the bearing and deportment of Ralph Colleton. He 
could not but admire the native superiority which characterized 
the manner of the youth, particularly when brought into con- 
trast with that of Guy Rivers, for whom the same feeling had 
induced a like, though not a parallel respect, on the part of the 
landlord. 

It may appear strange to those accustomed only to a passing 
and superficial estimate of the thousand inconsistencies which 
make up that contradictory creation, the human mind, that 
such should be a feature in the character of a ruffian like Munro ; 
but, to those who examine for themselves, we shall utter noth- 
ing novel when we assert, that a respect for superiority of men- 
tal and even mere moral attribute, enters largely into the habit 
of the ruffian generally. The murderer is not unfrequently 
found to possess benevolence as well as veneration in a high 
degree ; and the zealots of all countries and religions are al- 
most invariably creatures of strong and violent passions, to 
which the extravagance of their zeal and devotion furnishes an 
outlet, which is not always innocent in its direction or effects. 
Thus, in their enthusiasm — which is only a minor madness^ — 
whether the Hindoo bramin or the Spanish bigot, the English 
roundhead or the follower of the “ only true faith” at Mecca, 
be understood, it is but a word and a blow — though the word 
be a huiTied prayer to the God of their adoration, and the blow 
be aimed with all the malevolence of hell at the bosom of a 
fellow-creature. There is no greater inconsistency in the one 
character than in the other. The temperament which, under 
false tuition, makes the zealot, and drives him on to the perpe- 
tration of wholesale murder, while uttering a prayer to the 
Deity, prompts the same individual who, as an assassin or a 
highwayman, cuts your throat, and picks your pocket, and at 


412 


GtJT RIVERS.' 


tlie next moment bestows his ill-gotten gains without reserva 
tion upon the starving beggar by the wayside. 

There was yet another reason which swayed Munro not a 
little in his determination, if possible, to save the youth — and 
this was a lurking sentiment of hostility to Rivers. His pride, 
of late, on many occasions, had taken alarm at the frequent en- 
croachments of his comrade upon its boundaries. The too 
much repeated display of that very mental superiority in his 
companion, which had so much fettered him, had aroused his 
own latent sense of independence ; and the utterance of sundry 
pungent rebukes on the part of Rivers had done much towards 
provoking within him a new sentiment of dislike for that per- 
son, which gladly availed itself of the first legitimate occasion 
for exercise and development. The very superiority which 
commanded, and which he honored, he hated for that very rea- 
son ; and, in our analysis of moral dependence, we may add, 
that, in Greece, and the mere Hob of the humble farmhouse, 
Munro might have been the countryman to vote Aristides into 
banishment because of his reputation for justice. The barrier 
is slight, the space short, the transition easy, from one to the 
other extreme of injustice ; and the peasant who voted for the 
banishment of the just man, in another sphere and under other 
circumstances, would have been a Borgia or a Catiline. With 
this feeling in his bosom, Munro was yet unapprized of its ex- 
istence. It is not with the man, so long hurried forward by 
his impulses as at last to become their creature, to analyze 
either their character or his own. Vice, though itself a mon- 
ster, is yet the slave of a thousand influences, not absolutely 
vicious in themselves; and their desires it not uncommonly 
performs when blindfolded. It carries the knife, it strikes the 
blow, but is not always the chooser of its own victim. 

But, fortunately for Ralph Colleton, whatever and how many 
or how few were the impelling motives leading to this deter- 
mination, Munro had decided upon the preservation of his life ; 
and, with that energy of will, which, in a rash office, or one 
violative of the laws, he had always heretofore displayed, he 
permitted no time to esca|)e him unemployed for the contem- 
plated purpose. His mind immediately addressed itself to its 
chosen duty, and, in one disguise or another, and those perpet- 


PROPOSED RESCUE. 


413 


uallj changing, he perambulated the village, making his ar- 
rangements for the desired object. The difficulties in his way 
were not trifling in character nor few in number; and the 
greatest of these was that of finding coadjutors willing to second 
him. He felt assured that he could confide in none of his 
well-known associates, who were to a man the creatures of 
Kivers ; that outlaw, by a liberality which seemed to disdain 
money, and yielding every form of indulgence, having acquired 
over them an influence almost amounting to personal affection, 
h ortunately for his purpose, Rivers dared not venture much 
into the village or its neighborliood ; therefore, though free 
from any fear of obstruction from one in whose despite his 
whole design was undertaken, Munro was yet not a little at a 
loss for his co-operation. To whom, at that moment, could he 
turn, without putting himselff in the power of an enemy 1 
Thought only raised up new difiSculties in his way, and in 
utter despair of any better alternative, though scarcely willing 
to trust to one of whom he deemed so lightly, his eyes were 
compelled to rest, in the last hope, upon the person of the ped- 
ler, Bunce. 

Bunce, if the reader will remember, had, upon his release 
from prison, taken up his abode temporarily in the village. 
Under the protection now afforded by the presence of the 
judge, and the other ofiScers of justice — not to speak of the 
many strangers from the adjacent parts, whom one cause or 
another had brought to the place — he had presumed to exhibit 
his person with much more audacity and a more perfect free- 
dom from apprehension than he had ever shown in the same 
region before. He now — for ever on the go — thrust himself 
fearlessly into every cot and corner. No place escaped the search- 
ing analysis of his glance; and, in a scrutiny so nice, it was not long 
before he had made the acquaintance of everybody and eve- 
rything at all worthy, in that region, to be known. He could 
now venture to jostle Pippin with impunity ; for, since the 
trial in which he had so much blundered, the lawyei had lost 
no small portion of the confidence and esteem of his neighbors 
Accused of the abandonment of his client — an offence particu- 
larly monstrous in the estimation of those who are sufiiciently 
ioterested to acquire a personal feeling in such matters — an^ 


414 


GUY RIVERS. 


compelled, as lie liad been — a worse feature still i-i tbe estima. 
tion of tbe same class — to “eat his own words” — he had lost 
‘caste prodigiously in the last few days, and his fine sayings 
lacked their ancient flavor in the estimation of his neighbors. 
His speeches sunk below par along with himself ; and the ped- 
ler, in his contumelious treatment of the disconsolate jurist, 
simply obeyed and indicated the direction of the popular opin- 
ion. One or two rude replies, and a nudge which the elbow 
of Bunce, effected in the ribs of the lawyer, did provoke the 
latter so far as to repeat his threat on the subject of the prose- 
cution for the horse ; but the pcdler snapped his fingers in his 
face as he did so, and bade him defiance. He also reminded 
Pippin of the certain malfeasances to which he had referred 
previously, and the consciousness of the truth was sufflciently 
strong and awkward to prevent his proceeding to any further 
measure of disquiet with the offender. Thus, without fear, and 
with an audacity of which he was not a little proud, Bunce per- 
ambulated the village and its neighborhood, in a mood and 
with a deportment he had never ventured upon before in that 
quarter. 

He had a variety of reasons for lingering in the village seem- 
ingly in a state of idleness. Bunce was a long-sighted fellow, 
and beheld the promise which it held forth, at a distance, of a 
large and thriving business in the neighborhood; and he had too 
much sagacity not to be perfectly aware of the advantage, to a 
tradesman, resulting from a prior occupation of the ground. He 
had not lost everything in the conflagration which destroyed his 
cart-body and calicoes ; for, apart from sundry little debts due 
him in the surrounding country, he had carefully preserved 
around his body, in a black silk handkerchief, a small wallet, 
holding a moderate amount of the best bank paper. Bunce, 
among other things, had soon learned to discriminate between 
good and bad paper, and the result of his education in this re- 
spect assured him of the perfect integrity of the tliree hundred 
and odd dollars which kept themselves snugly about his waist 
— ready to be expended for clocks and calicoes, horn buttons, 
and wooden combs, knives, and negro-handkerchiefs, wheiievei 
their proprietor should determine upon a proper whereabout iu 
which to fix himself. Bunce had*grown tired of peddling — 


PROPOSED RESCUE. 


415 

the trade was not less uncertain than fatiguing. Besides, trav- 
elling so much among the southrons, he had imbibed not a few 
of their prejudices against his vocation, and, to speak the* truth, 
had grown somewhat ashamed of his present mode of life. He 
was becoming rapidly aristocratic, as we may infer from a very 
paternal and somewhat patronizing epistle, which he despatched 
about this time to his elder brother and copartner, Ichabod Bunce, 
who carried on his portion of the business at their native place 
in JMeiiden, Connecticut. He told hun, in a manner and vein 
not less lofty than surprising to his coadjutor, that it “ would 
not be the thing, no how, to keep along, lock and lock with him, 
in the same gears.” It was henceforward his “ idee to drive on 
his own hook. Times warn’t as they used to be and the fact 
was — he did not say it in so many words — the firm of Ichabod 
Buiice and Brother was Scarcely so creditable to the latter per- 
sonage as he should altogether desire among his southern friends 
and acquaintances. He “ guessed, therefore, best haul off,” and 
each — here Bunce showed his respect for his new friends by 
quoting their phraseology — “must paddle his own canoe.” 

We have minced this epistle, and have contented ourselves 
with providing a scrap, here and there, to the reader — despair- 
ing, as we utterly do, to gather from memory a full description 
of a performance so perfectly unique in its singular compound 
of lofty vein, with the patois and vulgar contractions of his na- 
tive, and those common to his adopted country. 

It proved to his more staid and veteran brother, that Jared 
was the only one of his family likely to get above his bread and 
business; but, while he lamented the wanderings and follies of 
his brother, he could not help enjoying a sentiment of pride as 
he looked more closely into the matter. “ Who knows,” thought 
the clockmaker to himself, “ but that Jared, who is a monstrous 
sly fellow, will pick up some southern heiress, with a thousand 
blackies, and an hundred acres of prime cotton-land to each, and 
thus ennoble the blood of the Bunces by a rapid ascent, through 
the various grades of office in a sovereign state, until a seat in 
Congress — in the cabinet itself — receives him;” — and Icha 
bod grew more than ever pleased and satisfied with the idea, 
when he reflected that Jared had all along been held to possess 
a goodly person, and a very fair development of the parts of 


416 


GUY RIVERS. 


speech. He even ventured to speculate upon the possibility of 
Jared passing into the White House — the dawn of that era 
having^already arrived, which left nobody safe from the crown- 
ing honors of the republic. 

Whether the individual of whom so much was expected, him- 
self entertained any such anticipations or ideas, we do not pre- 
tend to say ; but, certain it is, that the southern candidate for 
the popular suffrage could never have taken more pains to ex- 
tend his acquaintance or to ingratiate himself among the people, 
than did our worthy friend the pedler. In the brief time which 
he had passed in the village after the arrest of Colleton, he had 
contrived to have something to say or do with almost every- 
body in it. lie had found a word for his honor the judge; and 
having once spoken with that dignitary, Bunce was not the 
man to fail at future recognition. No distance of manner, no 
cheerless response, to the modestly urged or moderate sugges- 
tion, could prompt him to forego an acquaintance. With the 
jurors he had contrived to enjoy a sup of whiskey at the tavern 
bar-room; and had actually, and with a manner the most adroit, 
gone deeply into the distribution of an entire packet of steel- 
pens, one of which he accommodated to a reed, and to the fin- 
gers of each of the worthy twelve, who made the panel on that 
occasion — taking care, however, to assure them of the value of 
the gift, by saying, that if he were to sell the article, twenty- 
five cents each would be his lowest price, and he could scarcely 
save himself at that. But this was not all. Having seriously 
determined upon abiding at the south, he ventured upon some 
few of the practices prevailing in that region, and on more than 
one occasion, a gallon of whiskey had circulated “ free gratis,” 
and hono publico,^' he added, somewhat maliciously, at the 

cost of our worthy tradesman. These things, it may not be 
necessary to say, had elevated that worthy into no moderate 
importance among those around him ; and, that he himself was 
not altogether unconscious of the change, it may be remarked 
that an ugly kinky or double in his back — the consequence of 
nis pack and past humility — had gone down wonderfully, keep- 
ing due pace in its descent with the progress of his upward man- 
ifestations. 

J^uch was the somewhat novel position of Bunce, in the vil* 


t^ROPOSED RESCUE. 


417 


lage and neigliborliood of Chestatee, when the absolute necessity 
of tlie case prompted Munro’s application to him for assistance 
in the proposed extrication of Ralph Colleton. The landlord 
had not been insensible to the interest which the pedler had ta- 
ken in the youth’s fortune, and not doubting his perfect sympa- 
thy with the design in view, he felt the fewer scruples in ap- 
proaching him for the purpose. Putting on, therefore, the 
disguise, which, as an old woman, had effectually concealed his 
true person from Bunce on a previous occasion, he waited until 
evening had set in fairly, and then proceeded to the abode of 
him he sought. 

The pedler was alone in his cottage, discussing, most proba- 
bly, his future designs, and calculating to a nicety the various 
profits of each premeditated branch of his future business. 
Munro’s disguise was intended rather to facilitate his progress 
without detection through the village, than to impose upon the 
2)edler merely ; but it was not unwise that he should be ignorant 
also of the person with whom he dealt. Affecting a tone of voice, 
therefore, which, however masculine, was yet totally unlike his 
own, the landlord demanded a private interview, which was 
readily granted, though, as the circumstance was unusual, with 
some few signs 'of trepidation. Bunce was no lover of old wo- 
men, nor, indeed, of young ones either. He was habitually and 
constitutionally cold and impenetrable on the subject of all pas- 
sions, save that of trade, and would rather have sold a dress of 
calico, than have kissed the prettiest damsel in creation. His 
manner, to the old woman who appeared before him, seemed 
that of one who had an uncomfortable suspicion of having 
pleased rather more than he intended ; and it was no small re- 
lief, therefore, the first salutation being over, when the masculine 
tones reassured him. Munro, without much circumlocution, im- 
mediately proceeded to ask whether he was "willing to lend a 
hand for the help of Colleton, and to save him from the gal- 
lows ? 

“ Colleton ! — save Master Colleton ! — do tell— is that what 
you mean ?” 

“ It is. Are you the man to help your friend — will you make 
one along with others who are going to try for it ?” 

« Well, now, don’t be rash ; give a body time to consider 


418 


GUY RIVERS, 


It’s pesky full of trouble ; dangerous, too. It’s so strange ! — * 
and the pedler showed himself a little bewildered by the sud- 
den manner in which the subject had been broached. 

“There’s little Time to be lost, Bunce : if we don’t set to 
work at once, we needn’t set to work at all. Speak out, man f 
will you join us, now or never, to save the young fellow?” 

With something like des;^^ation in his manner, as if he scru- 
pled to commit himself too far, yet had the will to contribute 
considerably to the object, the pedler replied ; — 

“ Save the young fellow ? well, I guess I Avill, if you’ll jest 
say what’s to be done. I’ll lend a hand, to be sure, if there’s 
no trouble to come of it. He’s a likely chap, and not so stiff 
neither, though I did count him rather high-headed at first ; but 
after that, he sort a smoothed down, and now I don’t know no- 
body I’d sooner help jest now out of the slush : but I can’t see 
how we’re to set about it.” 

“ Can you fight, Bunce ? Are you willing to knock down and 
drag out, when there’s need for it ?” 

“ Why, if I was fairly listed, and if so be there’s no law agin 
it. I don’t like to run agin the law, no how ; and if you could 
get a body clear on it, why, and there’s no way to do the thing 
no other how, I guess I shouldn’t stand too long to consider 
when it’s to help a friend.” 

“ It may be no child’s play, Bunce, and there must be stout 
heart and free hand. One mustn’t.stop for trifles in such cases ; 
and, as for the law, when a man’s friend’s in danger, he must 
make his own law.” 

“ That wan’t my edication, no how ; my principles goes agin 
it. I must think about it. I must have a little time to con- 
sider.” But the landlord saw no necessity for consideration, 
and, fearful that the scruples of Bunce would be something too 
strong, he proceeded to smooth away the difficulty. 

“After all, Bunce, the probability is, we shall be able to man 
age the affair without violence : so we shall try, for I like blows 
just as little as anybody else ; but it’s best, you know, to make 
eady for the worst. Nobody knows how things will turn up ; 
and if it comes to the scratch, why, one mustn’t mind knocking 
a fellow on the head if he stands in the way.” 

“No, to )e sure not. ’Twould be foolish to stop and think 


PROPOSED RESCUE. 


419 

aliout wLat’s law, and wliat’s not law, and be knocked down 
yourself.” 

•‘Certainly, you’re right, Bunce; that’s only reason.” 

“And yet, mister, I guess you wouldn’t want that I should 
know your raal name, now, would you ? or maybe you’re going 
to tell it to me now ? Well — ” 

“ To the business : what matters it whether I have a name 
or not ? I have a fist, you see, and — ” 

“ Yes, yes, I see,” exclaimed he of the notions, slightly re- 
treating, as Munro, suiting the action to the word, thrust, rather 
more closely to the face of his companion than was altogether 
encouraging, the ponderous mass which courtesy alone would 
consider a fist — 

“Well, I don’t care, you see, to know the name, mister; but 
somehow it raally aint the thing, no how, to he mistering no- 
body knows who. I see you aint a woman plain enough from 
your face, and I pretty much conclude you must be a man ; 
though you have got on — what’s that, now? It’s a kind of 
calico, I guess; but them’s not fast colors, friend. I should 
say, now, you had been taken in pretty much by that bit of 
goods. It aint the kind of print, now, that’s not afeard of 
washing.” 

“And if I have been taken in, Bunce, in these calicoes, you’re 
the man that has done it,” said the landlord, laughing. “ This 
piece was sold by you into my own hands, last March was a 
year, when you came back from the Cherokees.” 

“Now, don’t! Well, I guess there must be some mistake; 
you aint sure, now, friend : might be some other dealer that you 
bought from ?” 

“None other than yourself, Bunce. You are the man, and I 
can bring a dozen to prove it on you.” 

“Well, I ’spose what you say’s true, and that jest let’s me 
know how to mister you now, ’cause, you see, I do recollect 
now all about who I sold that bit of goods to that season.” 

The landlord had been overreached ; and, amused with the 
ingenuity of the trader, he contented himself with again lifting 
the huge fist in a threatening manner, though the smile which 
accompanied the action fairly deprived it of its terrors. 

“ Well, well,” said the landlord, “ we burn daylight in such 


GUY RIVERS. 


4^20 

talk AS this. I come to you as the only man wh6 will or can 
help me in this matter; and Lucy Munro tells me you will — 
you made her some such promise.” 

“ Well, now, I guess I must toe the chalk, after all ; though, 
to say truth, I don’t altogether remember giving any such prom- 
ise. It must be right, though, if she says it ; and sartain she’s 
a sweet body — I’ll go my length for her any day.” 

“ You’ll not lose by it; and now hear my plan. You know 
Brooks, the jailer, and his bulldog brother-in-law, Tongs? I 
saw you talking with both of them yesterday.” 

“ Guess you’re right. Late acquaintance, though ; they aint 
neither on ’em to my liking.” 

“ Enough for our purpose. Tongs is a brute who will drink 
as long as he can stand, and some time after it. Brooks is ra- 
ther shy of it, but he will drink enough to stagger him, for he 
is pretty weak-headed. We have only to manage these fellows, 
and there’s the end of it. They keep the jail.” 

“ Yes, I know ; but you don’t count young Brooks ?” 

“ Oh, he’s a mere boy. Don’t matter about him. He’s easily 
managed. Now hear to my design. Provide your jug of whis- 
key, with plenty of eggs and sugar, so that they shan’t want 
anything, and get them here. Send for Tongs at once, and let 
him only know what’s in the wind ; then ask Brooks, and he 
will be sure to force him to come. Say nothing of the boy ; 
let him stay or come, as they think proper. To ask all might 
make them suspicious. They’ll both come. They never yet 
resisted a spiritual temptation. When here, ply them well, and 
then we shall go on according to circumstances. Brooks car- 
ries the keys along with him : get him once in for it, and I’ll 
take them from him. If he resists, or any of them — ” 

“ Knock ’em down ?” 

“Ay, quickly as you say it!” 

“ Well, but how if they do not bring the boy, and they leave 
him in the jail ?” 

“ What then ! Can’t we knock him down too ?” 

“ But, then, they’ll fix the whole business on my head. Won’t 
Brooks and Tongs say where they got drunk, and then shan’t I 
be in a scant fixin’ ?” 

“ They dare not. They won’t confess themselves drunk— 


I’llOPOSEI) RESCUE. 


421 


it’s as imicli as tlicir place is worth. They will say nothing till 
they get sober, and then they’ll get up some story that will hurt 
nobody.” 

“But—” 

“ But what ? will you never cease to but against obstacles ? 
Arc you a man — are you ready — bent to do what you can? 
Speak out, and let me know if I can depend on you,” exclaimed 
the landlord, impatiently. 

“ Now, don’t be in a passion ! You’re as soon off as a fly- 
machine, and a thought sooner. Why, didn’t I say, now, I’d 
go my length for the young gentleman ? And I’m sure I’m 
ready, and aint at all afeared, no how. I only did want to say 
that, if the thing takes wind, as how it raaly stood, it spiles all 
my calkilations. I couldn’t ’stablish a consarn here, I guess, 
for a nation long spell of time after.” 

“And what then ? where’s your calculations ? Get the young 
fellow clear, and what will his friends do for you ? Think of 
that, Bunce. You go off to Carolina with him, and open store 
in his parts, and he buys from you all he wants — his negro- 
cloths, his calicoes, his domestics, and stripes, and everything. 
Then his family, and friends and neighbors, under his recom- 
mendation — they all buy from you ; and then the presents they 
will make you — the fine horses — and who knows but even a 
plantation and negroes may all come out of this one transac- 
tion ?” 

“To be sure — who knows? Well, things do look tempta- 
tions enough, and there’s a mighty deal of reason, now, in what 
you say. Large business that, I guess, in the long run. Aint 
I ready? Let’s see — a gallon of whiskey — aint a gallon a 
heap too much for only three people ?” 

“ Better have ten than want. Then there must be pipes, to- 
bacco, cigars ; and mind, when they get well on in drinking, I 
shall look to yon through that window. Be sure and come to 
me then. Make some pretence, for, as Brooks may be slow and 
cautious, I shall get something to drop into his liquor — a little 
mixture which I shall hand you.” 

“ What mixture ? No pizen, I hope ! I don’t go that, not 1 
— no pizen ing for me.” 

“Pshaw ! fool — nonsense ! If I wanted their lives, could J 


422 


GUY RIVERS. 


not choose a shorter method, and a weapon wlii.h I could more 
truly rely upon than I ever can upon you ? It is to make them 
sleep that I shall give you the mixture.” 

“ Oh, laudnum. Well, now "vliy couldn’t you say laudnuna 
at first, without frightening people so with your mixtures'? — 
There’s no harm in laudnum, for my old aunt Tabitha chaws 
laudnum-gum jest as other folks chaws tobacco.” 

‘‘Well, that’s all — it’s only to get them asleep sooner. See 
now about your men at once. We have.no time to lose; and, 
if this contrivance fails, I must look about for another. It must 
be done to-night, or it can not be done at all. In an hour I 
shall return ; and hope, by that time, to find you busy with 
their brains. Ply them well — don’t be slow or stingy — and 
see that you have enough of whiskey. Here’s money — have 
everything ready.” 

The pedler took the money — why not? it was only proper 
to spoil the Egyptians — and, after detailing fully his plans, 
Muuro left him. Bunce gave himself but little time and less 
trouble for reflection. The prospects of fortune which the land- 
lord had magnified to his vision, were quite too enticing to be 
easily resisted by one whose morale was not of a sort to hold its 
ground against his habitual cupidity and newly-awakened am- 
bition ; and having provided everything, as agreed upon, neces- 
sary for the accommodation of the jailer and his assistant, Bunce 
sallied forth for the more important purpose of getting his com- 
pany. 


SACK AND SUGAR. 


428 


CHAPTER XXXVII. 

SACK AND SUGAR. 

The task of getting the desired guests, as Munro had assured 
him, was ly no means difficult, and our pedler was not long in 
reporting progress. Tongs, a confirmed toper, was easily per- 
suaded to anything that guarantied hard drinking. He luxuri- 
ated in the very idea of a debauch. Brooks, his brother-in-law, 
was a somewhat better and less pregnali'e person ; but he was 
a widower, had been a good deal with Tongs, and, what with 
the accustomed loneliness of the office which he held, and the 
gloomy dwelling in which it required he should live, he found 
it not such an easy matter to resist the temptation of social en- 
joyment, and all the pleasant associations of that good-fellow- 
ship, which Bunce had taken care to depict before the minds of 
both parties. The attractions of Bunce himself, by-the-way, 
tended, not less than the whiskey and cigars, to persuade the 
jailer, and to neutralize most of the existing prejudices current 
among those around him against his tribe. He had travelled 
much, and was no random observer. He had seen a great deal, 
as well of human nature as of places ; could tell a good story, 
in good spirit ; and was endowed with a dry, sneaking humor, 
that came out unawares upon his hearers, and made them laugh 
frequently in spite of themselves. 

Bunce had been now sufficiently long in the village to enable 
those about him to come at a knowledge of his parts ; and his 
accomplishments, in the several respects referred to, were by 
this time generally well understood. The inducement was suf- 
ficiently strong with the jailer ; and, at length, having secured 
the main entrance of the jail carefully, he strapped the key to 
a leathern girdle, which he wore about him, lodging it in the 
breast-pocket of his qoat, where he conceived it ^»orfectly safe» 


424 


GUY RIVERS. 


he prepared to go along with his worthy hr other-in-law. Nor 
was the younger Brooks forgotten. Being a tall, good-looking 
lad of sixteen, Tongs insisted it was high time he should appear 
among men ; and the invitation of the pedler was opportune, as 
affording a happy occasion for his initiation into some of those 
practices, estceaned, by a liberal courtesy, significant of man- 
liness. 

With everything in proper trim, Bunce stood at the entrance 
of his lodge, ready to receive them. The preliminaries were 
soon despatched, and we behold them accordingly, all four, 
comfortably seated around a huge oaken table in the centre of 
the apartment. There was the jug, and there the j:»3sses — the 
sugar, the peppermint, the nutmegs — the pipes and tobacco — 
all convenient, and sufficiently tempting for the unscrupulous. 
The pedler did the honors with no little skill, and Tongs 
plunged headlong iuto the debauch. The whiskey was never 
better, and foifnd, for this reason, anything but security where 
it stood. Glass after glass, emptied only to be replenished, 
attested the industrious hospitality of the host, not less than its 
own excellence. Tongs, averaging three draughts to one of his 
companion’s, was soon fairly under way in his progress to that 
state of mental self-glorification in which the world ceases to 
have vicissitudes, and the animal realizes the abstractions of an 
ancient philosophy, and denies all pain to life. 

Brooks, however, though not averse to the overcoming ele- 
ment, had more of that vulgar quality of prudence than his 
brother-in-law, and far more than was thought amiable in the 
opinion of the pedler. For some time, therefore, he drank with 
measured scrupulousness ; and it was with no small degi’ee of 
anxiety that Bunce plied him with the bottle — complaining of 
his unsociableness, and watching, with the intensity of any other 
experimentalist, the progress of his scheme upon him. As for 
the lad — the younger Brooks — it was soon evident that, once 
permitted, and even encouraged to drink, as he had been, by 
his superiors, he would not, after a little while, give much if 
any inconvenience to the conspirators. The design of the ped- 
ler was considerably advanced by Tongs, who, once intoxicated 
himself, was not slow in the endeavor to bring ail around him 
tinker the gaine influence 


SACfe AND StJGAR. 


425 


“Drink, Brooks — drink, old fellow,” he exclaimed; “as you 
are a true man, drink, and don’t fight shy of the critter ! Whis- 
key, my hoy — old Monongahely like this, I say — whiskey is 
wife and children — house and horse — lands and niggers — lib- 
erty and [hiccup] plenty to live on ! Don’t you see how I 
drive ahead, and don’t care for the hind wheels ? It’s all owing 
to whiskey ! Grog, T say — Hark ye, Mr. Pedler — grog, I say, 
is the wheels of life : it carries a man forbad. Why don't men 
go forbad in the world ? What’s the reason now ? I’ll tell you. 
They’re afeared. Well, now, who’s afeared when he’s got a 
broadside of whiskey in him? Nobody — nobody’s afeared but 
you — you, Ben Brooks, you’re a d — — d crick — crick — you’re 
always afeared of something, or nothing; for, after all, when- 
ever you’re afeared of something, it turns out to be nothing ! 
All ’cause you don’t drink like a man. That’s his cha-cha-rac^- 
ter, Mr. Bunce; and it’s all owing ’cause he won’t drink !” 

“ Guess there’s no sparing of reason in that bit of argument, 
now, I tell you, Mr. Tongs. Bless my heart — it’s no use talk 
ing, no how, but I’d a been clean done up, dead as a door-nail, if 
it hadn’t been for drink. Strong drink makes strong. Many’s 
the time, and tlie freezing cold, and the hard travelling in bad 
roads, and other dreadful fixins I’ve seed, would soon ha’ settled 
me up, if it hadn’t been for that same good stuff there, that Mas- 
ter Brooks does look as if he was afeared on. Now, don’t be 
afeared. Master Brooks. There’s no teeth in whiskey, and it 
never bites nobody.” 

“ No,” said Brooks, with the utmost simplicity ; “ only when 
they take too much.” 

“ How ?” said the pedler, looking as if the sentence contained 
some my.stcrious meaning. Brooks might have explained, but 
for Tongs, who dashed in after this fashion : — 

“ And who takes too much 1 You don’t mean to say I takes 
too much, Ben Brooks. I’d like to hear the two-legged critter, 
now, who’d say I takes more of the stuff than does me good. I 
drinks in reason, for the benefit of my health ; and jest, you'see, 
as a sort of medicine, Mr. Bunce ; and. Brooks, you knows I 
never takes a drop more than is needful.” 

“Sometimes — sometimes, Tongs, you know you ain’t alto- 
gether right under it— now and then you take a leetle too much 


426 


GUY RIVERS. 


for your good,” was the mild response of Brooks, to the almost 
fierce speech of his less scrupulous brother-in-law. The latter, 
thus encountered, changed his ground with singular rapidity. 

“ Well, by dogs ! — and what of that ? — and who is it says I 
shan’t, if it’s my notion ? I’d like now to see the boy that’ll 
stand up agin me and make such a speech. Who says I shan’t 
take what I likes — and that I takes more than is good for me? 
Does you say so, Mr. Bunce ?” 

“ No, thank ye, no. How should I say what ain’t true ? You 
don’t take half enough, now, it’s my idee, neither on you. It’s 
all talk and no cider, and that I call monstrous dry work. Come, 
pass round the bottle. Here’s to you. Master Tongs — Master 
Brooks, I drink your very good health. But fill up, fill up — you 
ain’t got nothing in your tumbler.” 

“No, he’s a sneak — you’re a sneak. Brooks, if you don’t fill 
up to the hub. Go the whole hog, boy, and don’t twist your 
mouth as if the stuff was physic. It’s what I call nation good, 
now ; no mistake in it, I tell you.” 

“Hah! that’s a true word — there’s no mistake in this stuff. 
It is jest now what I calls ginywine.” 

“ True Monongahely, Master Bunce. Whoever reckoned to 
find a Yankee pedler with a raal good taste for Monongahely? 
Give us your fist, Mr. Bunce ; I see you know’s what’s what. 
You ain’t been among us for nothing. You’ve lamed something 
by travelling ; and, by dogs 1 you’ll come to be something yit, 
if you live long enough — if so be you can only keep clear of 
the old rangey 

The pedler winced under the equivocal compliments of his 
companion, but did not suffer anything of this description to in- 
terfere with the vigorous prosecution of his design. He had the 
satisfaction to perceive that Brooks had gradually accommodated 
himself not a little to the element in which his brother-in-law, 
Tongs, was already floating happily ; and the boy, his son, al- 
ready wore the features of one over whose senses tl e strong 
liquor was momentarily obtaining the mastery. But these signs 
did not persuade him into any relaxation of his labors ; on the 
contrary, encouraged by success, he plied the draughts more 
frequently and freely than before, and with additional evidence 
of the influence o? the potation'" drank, when ho 


SACK AND SUGAR. 


427 


found that he was enabled, unperceived, to deposit the contente 
of his own tumbler, in most instances, under the table aroun*^ 
which they gathered. In the cloud of smoke encircling them, 
and sent up from their several pipes, Bunce could perceive the 
face of his colleague in the conspiracy peering in occasionally 
upon the assembly, and at length, on some slight pretence, he 
approached the aperture agreeably to the given signal, and re- 
ceived from the hands of the landlord a vial containing a strong 
infusion of opium, which he placed cautiously in his bosom, ami 
awaited the moment of more increased stupefaction to employ 
it. So favorably had the liquor operated by this time upon the 
faculties of all, that the elder Brooks grew garrulous and full of 
jest at the expense of his son — who now, completely overcome, 
had sunk down with his head upon the table in a profound slum- 
ber. The pedler joined, as well as Tongs, in the merriment — 
this latter personage, by the way, having now put himself com- 
pletely under the control of the ardent spirit, and exhibiting all 
the appearance of a happy madness. He howled like the wolf, 
imitated sundry animals, broke out into catches of song, which 
he invariably failed to finish, and, at length, grappling his 
brother-in-law, Brooks, aroijnd the neck, with both arms, as ho 
sat beside him, he swore by all that was strong in Monongahely, 
he should give them a song 

“ That’s jest my idee, now. Master Tongs. A song is a main 
fine thing, now, tv fill up the chinks. First a glass, then a puff 
or two, and then a song. 

Brooks, w'ho, in hackwood parlance, was “ considerably up a 
stump” — that is to say, half drunk — after a few shows of re- 
sistance, and the utterance of some feeble scruples, which were 
all rapidly set aside by his companions, proceeded to poui forth 
the rude melody which follows ; — 

THE how-d’ye-do BOY. 

“ For a how-d’ye-do boy, ’tis pleasure enough 
To have a sup of such goodly stuff*— 

To float away in a sky of fog, 

And swim the while in a sea of grog ; 

So, high or loUr, 

Let the world gd* 

iTie how-d’ye-do boy don’t fdr it — no — no — rid — no.” 


428 


GUT RIVERS. 


Tongs, who seemed to be familiar with the uncouth dithyram- 
hie, joined in the chorus, with a tumultuous discord, producing 
a most admirable effect; the pedler dashing in at the conclusion, 
aiiu shouting the finale with prodigious compass of voice. The 
song proceeded : — 

“ For a how-d’ye-do boy, who smokes and drinks, 

He does not care who cares or thinks ; 

Would Grief deny him to laugh and sing. 

He knocks her down with a single sling — 

So, high or low. 

Let the world go. 

The how-d’ye-do boy don’t care for it — no — no — no— no. 

“The h. w-d’yo-du boy is a boy of the night — 

It brings no cold, and it does not fright ; 

He buttons h’s coat and laughs at the shower, 

And he has a song for the darkest hour — 

So, high or low, 

Let the world go. 

The how-d’ye-do boy don’t care fur it — no — no — no — no.” 

'riie song gave no little delight to all parties. Tongs shout- 
ed, the pedler roared applause, and such was the general satis- 
faction, that it was no difficult thing to j'ersuade Brooks to the 
demolition of a bumper, which Bance adroitly proposed to the 
singer’s own health. It was while the hilarity thus produced 
was at its loudest, that the pedler seized the chance to pour a 
moderate portion of the narcotic into the several glasses of his 
companions, while a second time filling them ; hut, unfortunate- 
ly for himself, not less than the design in view, just at this mo- 
ment Brooks grew awkwardly conscious of liis own incvea.si»g 
weakness, having just reason enough left to feel that he had al- 
ready drunk too much. With a considerable show of resolution, 
therefore, he thrust away the glass so drugged for his benefit, 
and declared his determination to do no more of that business. 
He withstood all the suggestions of the pedler on the subject, 
and the affair began to look something less than hopeless w hen 
he proceeded to the waking up of his son, who, overcome by the 
liquor, was busily employed in a profound sleep, with his head 
upon the table. 

Tongs, who had lost nearly ftll tlig Jibwers of action, though 


3ACS AiTD SUGAR. 


129 


retaining not a few of his parts of speech, now came in fortu- 
nately to the aid of the rather-discomfited pedler. Pouring 
forth a volley of oaths, in which his more temperate brother- 
in-law was denounced as a mean-spirited critter, who couldn’t 
drink with his friend or fight with his enemy, he made an inef- 
fectual effort to grapple furiously with the offender, while he 
more effectually arrested his endeavor to waken up his son. It 
is well, perhaps, that his animal man lacked something of its 
accustomed efiiciency, and resolutely refused all co-operation 
with his mood ; or, it is more than probable, such was his wrath, 
that his more staid brother-in-law would have been subjected 
to some few personal tests of blow and buffet. The proceed- 
ings throughout suggested to the mind of the pedler a mode of 
executing his design, by proposing a bumper all round, with the 
view of healing the breach between the parties, and as a final 
draught preparatory to breaking up. 

A suggestion so reasonable could not well be resisted ; and, 
with the best disposition in the world toward sobriety, Brooks 
was persuaded to assent to the measure. Unhappily, however, 
for the pedler, the measure was so grateful to Tongs, that, be- 
fore the former could officiate, the latter, with a desperate effoi-t, 
reached forward, and, possessing himself of his own glass, he 
thrust another, which happened to be the only undrugged one, 
and which Bunce had filled for himself, into the grasp of the 
jailer. The glass designed for Brooks was now in the pedler’s 
own hands, and no time was permitted him for reflection. With 
a doubt as to whether he had not got hold of the posset meant 
for his neighbor, Bunce was yet unable to avoid the difficulty ; 
and, in a moment, in good faith, the contents of the several 
glasses were fairly emptied by their holders. There was a 
pause of considerable duration ; the several parties sank back 
quietly into their seats ; and, supposing from appearances that 
the effect of the drug had been complete, the pedler, though 
feeling excessively stupid and strange, had yet recollection 
enough to give the signal to his comrade. A moment only 
elapsed, when Munro entered the apartment, seemingly unper- 
ceived by all but the individual who had called him ; and, as 
an air of considerable vacancy and repose overspread all the 
company, he naturally enough concluded the potion had taken 


4^0 


GtJY RiVEiiS. 


due hold of the senses of the one whom it wjas his chief object 
to overcome. Without hesitation, therefore, and certainly ask- 
ing no leave, he thrust one hand into the bosom of the worthy 
jailer, while the other was employed in taking a sure hold of 
his collar. To his great surprise, however, he found that his 
man suffered from no lethargy, though severely bitten by the 
drink. Brooks made tierce resistance ; though nothing at such 
a time, or indeed at any time, in the hands of one so powerfully 
built as Munro. 

“Hello! now — who are you, I say? Hands off! — Tongs! 
Tongs ! — Hands off! — Tongs, I say — ” 

But Tongs heard not, or heeded not, any of the rapid excla- 
mations of the jailer, who continued to struggle. Munro gave 
a single glance to the pedler, whose countenance singularly con- 
trasted with the expression which, in the performance of such 
a duty, and at such a time, it might have been supposed proper 
for it to have worn. There was a look from his eyes of most 
vacant and elevated beatitude ; a simper sat upon his lips, 
which parted ineffectually with the speech that he endeavored 
to make. A still lingering consciousness of something, to be 
done, prompted him to rise, however, and stumble toward the 
landlord, who, while scuffling with the jailer, thus addressed 
him : — 

“Why, Bunce, it’s but half done! — you’ve bungled. See, 
he’s too sober by half!” 

“ Sober? no, no — guess he’s drunk — drunk as a gentleman. 
I say, now — what must I do ?” 

“ Ho ?” muttered the landlord, between his teeth, and point- 
ing to Tongs, who reeled and raved in his seat, “ do as I do !” 
And, at the word, with a single blow of his fist, he felled the 
still refractory jailer with as much ease as if he had been an 
infant in his hands. The pedler, only half conscious, turned 
nevertheless to the half-sleeping Tongs, and resolutely drove 
his fist into his face. 

It was at that moment that the nostrum, having taken its full 
effect, deprived him of the proper force which alone could have 
made the blow available for the design which he had manfully 
enough undertaken. The only result of the effort was to pre- 
cipitate him, with an impetus not his own, though deriving 


SACK AND SUGAR. 


431 


tauch of its effect from his own weight, upop the person of the 
enfeebled Tongs : the toper clasped him round with a corre- 
sponding spirit, and they both rolled upon the floor in utter 
imbecility, carrying with them the table around which they had 
been seated, and tumbling into the general mass of bottles, 
pipes, and glasses, the slumbering youth, who, till that moment, 
lay altogether ignorant of the catastrophe. 

Munro, in the meanwhile, had possessed himself of the de- 
sired keys ; and throwing a sack, with which he had taken care 
to provide himself, over the head of the still struggling but ra- 
ther stupified jailer, he bound the mouth of it with cords closely 
around his body, and left him rolling, with more elasticity and 
far less comfort than the rest of the party, around the floor of 
the apartment. 

He now proceeded to look at the pedler ; and seeing his con- 
dition, though much wondering at his falling so readily into his 
own temptation — never dreaming of the mistake which he had 
made — he did not waste time to rouse him up, as he plainly 
saw he could get no further service out of him. A moment’s re- 
flection taught him, that, as the condition of Bunce himself would 
most probably free him from any suspicion of design, the affair 
told as well for his purpose as if the original arrangement had 
succeeded. Without more pause, therefore, he left the house, 
carefully locking the doors on the outside, so as to delay egress, 
and hastened immediately tc the release of the prisoner. 


432 


GUY RIVEHS. 


CHAPTER XXXVIII. 

FREEDOM — FLIGHT. 

The landlord lost no time in freeing the captive. A few min- 
utes sufficed to find and fit the keys ; and, penetrating at once 
to the cell of Ralph Colleton, he soon made the youth acquaint- 
ed with as much of the circumstances of his escape as might he 
thought necessary for the satisfaction of his immediate curiosity. 
He wondered at the part taken by Munro in the affair, but hesi- 
tated not to accept his assistance. Though scrupulous, and 
rigidly so, not to violate the laws, and having a conscientious 
regard to all human and social obligations, he saw no immorality 
in flying from a sentence, however agreeable to law, in all re- 
spects so greatly at variance with justice. A second intimation 
was not wanting to his decision ; and, without waiting until the 
landlord should unlock the chain which secured him, he waa 
about to dart forward into the passage, when the restraining 
check which it gave to his forward movement warned him of 
the difficulty. 

Fortunately, the obstruction was small : the master-key, not 
only of the cells, but of the several locks to the fetters of the 
prison, was among the bunch of which the jailer had been dis- 
possessed ; and, when found, it performed its office. The youth 
was again free ; and a few moments only had elapsed, after the 
departure of Munro from the house of the pedler, when both 
Ralph and his deliverer were upon the high-road, and bending 
their unrestrained course toward the Indian nation. 

“And now, young man,’* said the landlord, “ you are free. I 
have performed my promise to one whose desire in this matter 
jumps full with my own. I should have been troubled enough 
had you perished for the death of Forrester, though, to speak 


FREEDOM — FLIGHT. ' - 433 

iLe truth, I should not have risked myself, as I have done to- 
night, hut for my promise to her.” 

“ Who 1 — of whom do you speak ? To whom do I owe all 
this, if it comes not of your own head?” 

“And you do not conjecture? Have you not a thought on 
the subject? Was it likely, think you, that the young woman, 
who did not fear to go to a stranger’s chamber at midnight, in 
order to save him from his enemy, would forget him altogether 
when a greater danger was before him ?” 

“And to Miss Munro again do I owe my life? Noble girl! 
how shall I requite — how acknowledge my deep responsibility 
to her?” 

“ You can not ! I have not looked on either of you for noth- 
ing ; and my observation has taught me all your feelings and 
hers. You can not reward her as she deserves to he rewarded 
— as, indeed, she only can be rewarded by you, Mr. Colleton. 
Better, therefore, that you seek to make no acknowledgments.” 

“ What mean you ? Your words have a signification beyond 
my comprehension. I know that I am unable to requite ser- 
vices such as hers, and such an endeavor I surely should not 
attempt ; hut that I feel gratitude for her interposition may not 
well be questioned — the deepest gi-atitude; for in this deed, 
with your aid, she relieves me, not merely from death, but the 
worse agony of that dreadful form of death. My acknowledg- 
ments for this service are nothing, I am well aware ; but these 
she shall have : and what else have I to offer, which she would 
be likely to accept?” 

“There is, indeed, one thing, Mr. Colleton — now that I re- 
flect — which it may be Si your power to do, and which may 
relieve you of some of the obligations which you owe to her 
interposition, here and elsewhere.” 

The landlord paused for a moment, and looked hesitatingly 
in Ralph’s countenance. The youth saw and understood the 
expression, and replied readily : — 

“ Doubt not, Mr. Munro, that I shall do all things consistent 
with propriety, in my power to do, that may take the shape and 
character of requital for this service ; anything for Miss Munro, 
for yourself or others, not incompatible with tlie character of 
the gentleman. Speak, sir : if you can ^iiggest a labor of any 

9 


434 


GUY RIVERS. 


ilescription, not under this head, which would be grateful to 
yourself oi her, fear not to speak, and rely upon my gratitude 
to serve you both.” 

“ I thank you, Mr. Colleton ; your frankness relieves me of 
some heavy thoughts, and I shall open my mind freely to you 
on the subject which now troubles it. I need not tell you what 
my course of life has been. I need not tell you what it is now 
Bad enough, Mr. Colleton — bad enough, as you must know by 
this time.' Life, sir, is uncertain with all persons, but far more 
uncertain with him whose life is such as mine. I know not th& 
hour, sir, when I may be knocked on the head. I have no con^ 
fidence in the people I go with ; I have nothing to hope from 
the sympathies of society, or the protection of the laws ; and I 
have now arrived at that time of life when my own exjDerience 
is hourly repeating in my ears the words of scripture : ‘ The 
wages of sin is death.’ Mine has been a life of sin, Mr. Colle- 
ton, and I must look for its wages. These thoughts have been 
troubling me much of late, and I feel them particularly heavy 
now. But, don’t think, sir, that fear for myself makes up my 
suffering. I fear for that poor girl, who has no protector, and 
may be doomed to the control of one who would make a hell 
on earth for all under his influence. He has made a hell of it 
for me.” 

“ Who is he ? whom do you mean ?” 

“ You should know him well enough by this time; fdv he has 
sought your life often enough already — who should I mean, if 
not Guy Rivers ?” 

“And how is she at the mercy of this wretch ?” 

The landlord continued as if he had not heard the inquiry : 

“ Well, as I say, I know not how long I shall be able to take 
care of and provide for that poor girl, whose wish has prompted 
me this night to what I have undertaken. She was my broth 
er’s child, Mr. Colleton, and a noble creature she is. If I live, 
sir, she will have to become the wife of Rivers ; and, though 1 
love her as my own — as I have never loved my own — yet she 
must abide the sacrifice from which, while I live, there is no 
escape. But sotnething tells me, sir, I have not long to live. 1 
have k iiOtieh wliicli fnftkes nie gloomy, and which has troubled 
me etiif sifite yOfl hate been in prison. Olio dream comes to 


FREEDOM — FLIGHl. 


435 


me every uiglit — ^vlienever I sleep — and I wake, all over per- 
spiration, and wltli a terror I’m ashamed of. In this dream 1 
see my brother always, and always with the same' expression. 
He looks at me long and mournfully, and his finger is uplifted, 
as if in warning. I hear no word from his lips, but they are in 
motion as if he spoke, and then he walks slowly away. Thus, 
for several nights, has my mind been haunted, and I’m sure it 
is not for nothing. It warns me that the time is not very far 
distant when I shall receive the wages of a life like mine — the 
wages of sin — the death, perhaps — who knows? — the death 
of the felon !” 

“ These are fearful fancies, indeed, Mr. Munro ; and, whether 
we think on them or not, will have their influence over the 
strongest-minded of us all : but the thoughts which they occa- 
sion to your mind, while they must be painful enough, may be 
the most useful, if they awaken regret of the past, and incite to 
amendment in the future. Without regarding them as the pre- 
sentiments of death, or of any fearful change, I look upon them 
only as the result of your own calm reflections upon the un- 
profitable nature of vice ; its extreme unproductiveness in the 
end, however enticing in the beginning; and the painful priva- 
tions of human sympathy and society, which are the inevitable 
consequences of its indulgence. These fancies are the sleepless 
thoughts, the fruit of an active memory, which, at such a time, 
unrestrained by the waking judgment, mingles up the counsels 
and the warnings of your brother and the past, with all the im- 
ages and circumstances of the present time. But — go on with 
your suggestion. Let me do what I can for the good of those 
in whom you are interested.” 

“ You are right : whatever may be my apprehensions, life is 
uncertain enough, and needs no dreams to make it more so. 
Still, I can not rid myself of this impression, which sticks to 
me like a shadow. Night after night I have seen him — just 
as I saw him a year before he died. But his looks were full of 
meaning ; and when his lips opened, though I heard not a word, 
they seemed to me to say, ‘ The hour is at hand !’ I am sure 
they spoke the truth, and I must prepare for it. If 1 live, Mr. 
Colleton, Lucy must marry Kivers: there’s no hope for her 
eecftpe. If 1 tlie; thefe^s no reason for the marriage, for slie can 


436 - 


GUY RIVERS. 


vhen bid bim defiance. She is willing to marry limi now merely 
on my account ; for, to say in words, what you no doubt under- 
stand, 1 am at bis mercy. If I perish before the marriage take 
place, it will not take place ; and she will then need a pro- 
tector — ” 

“ Say no more,” exclaimed the youth, as the landlord paused 
for an instant — “ say no more. It will be as little as I can 
say, when I assure you, that all that my family can do for her 
happiness — all that I can do — shall be done. Be at ease on 
this matter, and believe me that I promise you nothing which 
my heart would not strenuously insist upon my performing. She 
shall be a sister to me.” 

As he spoke, the landlord warmly pressed his hand, leaning 
forward from his saddle as he did so, but without a single ac- 
companying word. The dialogue was continued, at intervals, 
in a desultory form, and without sustaining, for any length of 
time, any single topic. Munro seemed heavy with gloomy 
thoughts ; and the sky, now becoming lightened with the glo- 
ries of the ascending moon, seemed to have no manner of influ- 
ence over his sullen temperament. Not so with the youth. He 
grew elastic and buoyant as they proceeded ; and his spirit rose, 
bright and gentle, as if in accordance with the pure lights which 
noAV disposed themselves, like an atmosphere of silver, through- 
out the forest. The thin clouds, floating away from the parent- 
orb, and no longer obscuring her progress, became tributaries, 
and were clothed in their most dazzling draperies — clustering 
around her pathway, and contributing not a little to the loveli- 
ness of that serene star from which they received so much. But 
the contemplations of the youth were not long permitted to run 
on in the gladness of his newly-found liberty. On a sudden, 
the action of his companion became animated : he drew up his 
steed for an instant, then applying the rowel, exclaimed in a 
deep but suppressed tone — 

“We are pursued — ride, now — for your life, Mr. Colleton; 
it is three miles to the river, and our horses will serve us well. 
They are chosen — ply the spur, and follow close after me.” 

Let us return to the village. The situation of the jailer, 
Brooks, and of his companions, as the landlord left them, will 
be readily retneinbeted by the reader* It was not until the fu- 


J'REEDOM — ELiGHt. 


43 ? 


gitives ’were fairly on the road, that the former, who had been 
pretty well stunned hy the severe blow given him by Munro, 
recovered from his stupor; and he then laboured under the 
difficulty of freeing himself from the bag about his head and 
shoulders, and his incarceration in the dwelling of the pedler. 

The blow had come nigh te sobering him, and his efforts, ac- 
cordingly, were not without success. He looked round in as- 
toiiishmeiit upon the condition of all things around him, igno- 
rant of the individual who had wrested from him his charge, 
besides subjecting his scull to the heavy test which it had been 
so little able to resist or he to repel ; and, almost ready to be- 
lieve, from the equally prostrate condition of the pedler and his 
I rother, that, in reality, the assailant by which he himself was 
overthrown was no other than the potent bottle-god of his 
brother’s familiar worship. 

Such certainly would have been his impression but for the 
sack in which he had been enveloped, and the absence of his 
keys. The blow, which he had not ceased to feel, might have 
been got by a drunken man in a thousand ways, and was no 
argument to show the presence of an enemy ; but the sack, and 
the missing keys — they brought instant conviction, and a rap- 
idly increasing sobriefy, which, as it duly increased his capa- 
city for reflection, was only so much more unpleasant than his 
drunkenness. 

But no time was to be lost, and the first movement — having 
essayed, though ineffectually, to kick his stupid host and snor- 
ing brother-in-law into similar consciousness with himself — 
was to rush headlong to the jail, wdiere he soon realized all the 
apprehensions which assailed him when discovering the loss of 
his keys. The prisoner was gone, and the riotous search 
which he soon commenced about the village collected a crowd 
whose clamors, not less than his own, had occasioned the uproar, 
which concluded the conference between Miss Colleton and 
Guy Rivers, as narrated in a previous chapter. 

The mob, approaching the residence of Colone Colleton, as 
a place which might probably have been resorted to by the 
fugitive, brought the noise more imperiously to the ears of 
Rivers, and compelled his departure. He sallied forth, and in 
a little while ascertained the cause of the disorder. By thia 


m 


GtJY mVEUS, 


time the dwelling of Colonel Colleton-liad undergone the closest 
scrutiny. It was evident to the crowd, that, so far from har- 
boring the youth, they were not conscious of the escape ; but 
of this Rivers was not so certain. He was satisfied in his own 
mind that the stern refusal of Edith to accept his overtures for 
the rescue, arose only from the belief that they could do with- 
out him. More than ever irritated by this idea, the outlaw 
was bold enough, relying upon his disguise, to come forward, 
and while all was indecisive in the multitude, to lay plans for 
a pursuit. He did not scruple to instruct the jailer as to what 
course should be taken for the recovery of the fugitive ; and 
by his cool, strong sense and confidence of expression, he in 
fused new hope into that much -bewildered person. Nobody 
knew who he was, but as the village was full of strangers, who 
had never been seen there before, this fact occasioned neither 
surprise nor inquiry. 

His advice was taken, and a couple of the Georgia guard, 
who were on station in the village, now making their appear- 
ance, he suggested the course which they should pursue, and in 
few words gave the reasons which induced the choice. Famil- 
iar himself with all the various routes of the surrounding 
country, he did not doubt that the fugitive, under whatever 
guidance, for as yet he knew nothing of Munro’s agency in 
the business, would take the most direct course to the Indian 
nation. 

All this was done, on his part, with an excited spirit, the re- 
sult of that malignant mood which now began to apprehend 
the chance of being deprived of all its victims. Had this not 
been the case — had he not been present — the probability is, 
that, in the variety of counsel, there would have been a far 
greater delay in the pursuit ; but such must always be the in- 
fluence of a strong and leading mind in a time of trial and pop- 
ular excitement. Such a mind concentrates and makes effec- 
tive the power which otherwise would be wasted in air. His 
superiority of character was immediately manifest — his sug- 
gestions were adopted without dissent ; and, in a few moments 
the two troopers, accompanied by the jailer, were in pursuit 
upon the very road taken by the fugitives. 

Rivers, in the meanwhile, though excessively anxious about 


FREEDOM — PLIGHt. 


4S9 

the residt of the pursuit, was yet too sensible of his own risk to 
remain much longer in the village. Annoyed not a little by 
the apprehended loss of that revenge which he had described 
as so delicious in contemplation to his mind, he could not ven- 
ture to linger where he was, at a time of such general excite- 
ment and activity. With a prudent caution, therefore, more 
the result of an obvious necessity than of any accustomed habit 
of his life, he withdrew himself as soon as possible from the 
crowd, at the moment when Pippin — who never lost a good 
opportunity — had mounted upon a stump in order to address 
them. Breaking away just as the lawyer was swelling with 
some old truism, and perhaps no truth, about the rights of man 
and so forth, he mounted his horse, which he had concealed in 
the neighborhood, and rode off to the solitude and the shelter 
of his den. 

There was one thing that troubled his mind along with its 
other troubles, and that was to find out who were the active 
parties in the escape of Colletdn. In all this time, he had not 
for a moment suspected Munro of connection with the affair — 
he had too much overrated his own influence with the landlord 
to peimit of a thought in his mind detrimental to his conscious 
superiority. He had no clue, the guidance of which might 
bring him to the trail ; for the jailer, conscious of his own irreg- 
ularity, was cautious enough in suppressing everything like a 
detail of the particular circumstances attending the escape; 
contenting himself, simply, with representing himself as having 
been knocked down by some persons unknown, and rifled of 
the keys while lying insensible. 

Rivers could only think of the pedler, and yet, such was his 
habitual contempt for that person, that he dismissed the thought 
the moment it came into his mind. Troubled thus in spirit, 
and filled with a thousand conflicting notions, he had almost 
reached* the rocks, when he was surprised to perceive, on a sud- 
den, close at his elbow, the dwarfish figure of our old friend 
Chub Williams. Without exhibiting the slightest show of ap- 
prehension, the urchin resolutely continued his course along 
with the outlaw, unmoved by his presence, and with a degree 
of cavalier indifference which he had never ventured to mani- 
fest to that dangerous personage before. 


440 


Giit RiVfiRB. 


“ Wliy, how now, Chub — do you not see me?” was tie first 
inquiry of Rivers. 

“Can the owl see? — Chub is an owl — he can’t see in the 
moonlight.” 

“ Well, but. Chub — why do you call yourself an owl ? You 
don’t want to see me, hoy, do you ?” 

“ Chub wants to see nobody but his mother — there’s Miss 
Lucy now — why don’t you let me see her? she talks jest like 
Chub’s mother.” 

“ Why, you dog, didn’t you help to steal her away ? Have 
you forgotten how you pulled away the stones ? I should have 
you wliippcd for it, sir — do you know that I can whip — don’t 
the hickories grow here ?” 

“Yes, so Chub’s mother said — hut you can’t whip Chub. 
Chub laughs — he laughs at all your whips. That for your 
hickories. Ha! ha! ha! Chub don’t mind the hickories — 
you can’t catch Chub, to whip him with your hickories. Try 
now, if you can. Try — ” anS as he spoke he darted along 
with a rickety, waddling motion, half earnest in his flight, yet 
seemingly, partly with the desire to provoke pursuit. Some- 
thing irritated with what was so unusual in the habit of the 
hoy, and what he conceived only so much impertinence, the 
outlaw turned the horse’s head down the hill after him, hut, as 
he soon perceived, without any chance of overtaking him in so 
broken a region. The urchin all the while, as if encouraged 
by the evident hopelessness of the chase on the part of the 
pursuer, screeched out volley after volley of defiance and 
laughter — breaking out at intervals into speeches which he 
thought most like to annoy and irritate. 

“Ha, ha, ha! Chub don’t mind your hickories — Chub’s 
fingers are long — he will pull away all the stones of your 
house, and then you will have to live in the tree-top.” 

But on a sudden his tune was changed, as Rivers, half- 
irritated by the pertinacity of the dwarf, pull out a pistol, and 
directed it at his head. In a moment, the old influence was 
predominant, and in undisguised terror he cried out — 

“Now don’t — don’t, Mr. Guy — don’t you shoot Chub-^ 
Chub \^ on’t laugh again — he won’t pull away the stones — he 
won’t.” 


FEEEDOM — PLIGHT. 


441 


The outlaw now laughed himself at the terror which he had 
inspired, and beckoning the boy near him, he proceeded, if pos- 
sible, to persuade hin. into a feeling of amity. There ^as a 
strange temper in him with reference to this outcast. His 
deformity — his desolate condition — his deficient intellect, in- 
spired, in the breast of the fierce man, a feeling of sympathy, 
which he had not entertained for the whole world of humanity 
beside. 

Such is the contradictory character of the misled and the 
erring spirit. Warped to enjoy crime — to love the deformities 
of all moral things — to seek after and to surrender itself up to 
all manner of perversions, yet now and then, in the long tissue, 
returning, for some moments, to the original temper of that first 
nature not yet utterly departed ; and few and feeble though the 
fibres be which still bind the heart to her worship, still strong 
enough at times to remind it of the true^ however it may be 
insufficient to restrain it in its wanderings after the false. 

But the language and effort of the outlaw, thougli singularly 
kind, failed to have any of the desired effect upon the dwarf. 
With an unhesitating refusal to enter the outlaw’s dwelling- 
place in the rocks, he bounded away into a hollow of the liills, 
and in a moment was out of sight of his companion. Fatigued 
with his recent exertions, and somewhat more sullen than usual, 
Rivers entered the gloomy abode, into which it is not our pres 
ent design to follow him. 


19 * 


^42 


GUY RIVEIIS. 


CHAPTER XXXIX. 

PURSUIT — DEATH. 

The fugitives, meanwliile, pursued their wa} with the speed 
of men conscious that life and death hung upon their progress. 
There needed no exhortations from his companion to Ralph 
Colleton. More than life, with him, depended upon his speed. 
The shame of such a death as that to which he had been 
destined was for ever before his eyes, and with a heart nerved 
to its utmost by a reference to the awful alternative of flight, 
he grew reckless in the audacity with which he drove his horse 
forward in defiance of all obstacle and over every impediment. 
Nor were the present apprehensions of Munro much less than 
those of his companion. To be overtaken, as the participant of 
the flight of one whose life was forfeit, would necessarily invite 
such an examination of himself as must result in the develop 
ment of his true character, and such a discovery must only ter 
minate in his conviction and sentence to the same doom. His 
previously-uttered presentiment grew more tlian ever strong 
with the gi'owing consciousness of his danger ; and with an 
animation, the fruit of an anxiety little short of absolute fear, 
he stimulated the progress of Colleton, while himself driving 
the rowel ruthlessly into the smoking sides of the animal he 
bestrode. 

“ On, sir — on, Mr. Colleton — this is no moment for graceful 
attitude. Bend forward — free rein — rashing spur. We ride 
for life — for life. They must not take us alive — remember 
that. Let them shoot — strike, if they please — but they must 
put no hands on us as living men. If we must die, why — any 
death but a dog’s. Are you prepared for such a finish to your 
ride ?” 

“ I am— * but I trust it has not come to that. How much have 
we yet to the river 


PURSUIT — DEATH. 


443 


*' Two miles at the least, and a tough road. They gain upon 
us — do you not hear them — we are slow — very slow. These 
horses — on, Syphax, dull devil — on — on !” 

And at every incoherent and unconnected syllable, the land- 
lord struck his spurs into his animal, and incited the youth to 
do the same. 

“ There is an old mill upon the branch to our left, where for 
a few hours we might lie in secret, but daylight would find us 
out. Shall we try a birth there, or push on for the river V' in- 
quired Munro. 

“Push on, by all mea^h — let us stop nowhere — we shall be 
safe if wo make the nation,” was the reply . 

“ Ay, safe enough, but that’s the riib. If we could stretch a 
mile or two between us, so as to cross before they heave in 
sight, I could take you to a place where the whole United 
States would never find us out — but they gain on us — I hear 
them every moment more and more near. The sounds are very 
clear to-night — a sign of rain, perhaps to-morrow. On, sir! 
Push I The pursuers must hear us, as we hear them.” 

“But I hear them not — I hear no sounds but our own — ” 
replied the youth. 

“Ah, that’s because you have not the ears of an outlaw. 
There’s a necessity for using our ears, one of the first that we 
acquire, and I can hear sounds farther, I believe, than any man 
I ever met, unless it be Guy Rivers. He has the ears of the 
devil, when his blood’s up. Then he hears further than I can, 
though I’m not much behind him even then. Hark ! they are 
now winding the hill not more than half a mile off, and we hear 
nothing of them now until they get round — the hill thuws the 
echo to the rear, as it is more abrupt on that side than on this. 
At this time, if they heard us before, they can not hear us. 
We could now make the old mill with some hope of their losing 
our track, as we strike into a blind path to do so. What say 
you. Master Colleton — shall we turn aside or go forward 

Forward, I say. If we are to suffer, I would suffer on the 
high road, in full motion, and not be caught in a crevice like a 
lurking thief. Better be shot down — far better — I think with 
you — than risk recapture.” 

' W •,!! it’s the right spirit you have, and we may beat 


444 


GUY RIVERS. 


tliem yet! We cease again to hear them. They are drivilig 
through the close grove where the trees hang so much over. 
God — it is but a few moments since we went through it our- 
selves — they gain on us — hut the river is not far — speed on — 
band forward, and use the spur — a few minutes more close 
pushing, and the river is in sight. Kill the beasts — no matter 
— hut make the river.” 

“ Ifow do we cross V* inquired the youth, hurriedly, though 
with a confidence something increased by the manner of his 
companion. 

“Drive in — drive in — there are tw: fords, each within 
twenty yards of the other, and the river hi not high. You take 
tlie path and ford to the right, as you come in sight of the 
water, and I’ll keep the left. Your horse swims well — so don’t 
mind the risk ; and if there’s any difficulty, leave him, and take 
to the water yourself. The side I give you is the easiest; 
though it don’t matter which side I take. I’ve gone through 
worse chances than this, and, if we hold on for a few mpmojits, 
we are safe. The next turn, and we are on the hanks.” 

“ The river — the river,” exclaimed the youth, involuntarily, 
as the broad and quiet stream wound before his eyes, glittering 
like a polished mirror in the moonlight. 

“ Ay, there it is — now to the right — to the right ! Look not 
behind you. Let them shoot — let them shoot ! but lose not an 
instant to look. Plunge forward and drive in. They are close 
upon us, and the flat is on the other side. They can’t pursue, 
unless they do as we, and they have no such reason for so des- 
perate a course. It is swimming and full of snags ! They will 
stop — they will not follow. In — in — not a moment is to be 
lost — ” and speaking, as they pursued their several ways, he to 
the left and Ralph Colleton to the right ford, the obedient 
steeds plunged forward under the application of the rowel, and 
were fairly in the bosom of the stream, as the pursuing party 
rode headlong up the bank. 

Struggling onward, in the very centre of the stream, with the 
steed, which, to do him all manner of justice, swam nobly, Ralph 
Colleton could not resist the temptation to look round upon his 
pursuers. Writhing his body in the saddle, therefore, a single 
glance was sufficient and, in the full glare of the moonli-^h', 


PURSUIT — DEATH. 


445 


unimpeded by any interposing foliage, the prospect before his 
eyes was imposing ani terrible enough. The pursuers were 
four in number — the jailer, two of the Georgia guard, and an- 
other person unknown to him. 

As Munro had predicted, they did not venture to plunge in 
as the fugitives had done — they had no such fearful motive for 
the risk ; and the few moments which they consumed in delib- 
eration as to what they should do, contributed not a little to the 
successful experiment of the swimmers. 

But the youth at length caught a fearful signal of prepara- 
tion ; his ear noted the sharp click of the lock, as the rifle was 
referred to in the final resort; and his ready sense conceived 
but of one, and the only mode of evading the danger so imme- 
diately at hand. Too conspicuous in his present situation to 
hope for escape, short of a miracle, s6 long as he remained upon 
the back of the swimming horse, he relaxed his hold, carefully 
drew his feet from the stirrups, resigned his seat, and only a 
second before the discharge of the rifle, was deeply buried in 
the bosom of the Ohestatee. 

The steed received the bullet in his head, plunged forward 
madly, to the no small danger of Ralph, who had now got a lit- 
tle before him, but in a few moments lay supine upon the stream, 
and was borne down by its current. The youth, practised in 
such exercises, pressed forward under the surface for a sufficient 
time to enable him to avoid the present glance of the enemy, and 
at length, in safety, rounding a jutting point of the shore, which 
effectually concealed him from their eyes, ho gained the dry 
land, at the very moment in which Munro, with more success, 
was clambering, still mounted, up the steep sides of a neighbor- 
ing and slippery bank. 

Familiar with such scenes, the landlord had duly estimated 
the doubtful chances of his life in swimming the river directly 
in sight of the pursuers. He had, therefore, taken the precau- 
tion to oblique considerably to the left from the direct course, 
and did not, in consequence, appear in sight, owing to the sinuous 
windings of the stream, until he had actually gained the shore. 

The youth beheld him at this moment, and shouted aloud his 
own situation and safety. In a voice indicative of restored con- 
f deuce in himself, no less than in his fate, the landlord, by a 


446 


GUY RIVERS. 

similar shout, recognised him, and was bending forward to the 
spot where he stood, when the sharp and joint report of three 
rifles from the opposite banks, attested the discovery of his per- 
son ; and, in the same instant, the rider tottered forward in his 
saddle, his grasp was relaxed upon the rein, and, without a 
word, he toppled from his seat, and was borne for a few paces 
by his horse, dragged forward by one of his feet, which had not 
been released from the stirrup. 

He fell, at length, and the youth came up with him. He 
heard the groans of the wounded man, and, though exposirig 
himself to the same chance, he could not determine upon flight. 
He might possibly have saved himself by taking the now freed 
animal which the landlord had ridden, and at once burying him- 
self in the nation. But the noble weakness of pity detemiined 
him otherwise ; and, without scruple or fear, he resolutely ad- 
vanced to the spot where Munro lay, though full in the sight 
of the pursuers, and prepared to render him what assistance he 
could. One of the troopers, in the meantime, had swum the 
river ; and, freeing the flat from its chains, had directed it across 
the stream for the passage of his companions. It was not long 
before they had surrounded the fugitives, and llalph Colleton 
was again a prisoner, and once more made conscious of the 
dreadful doom from which he had, at one moment, almost con- 
ceived himself to have escaped. 

Munro had been shockingly wounded. One ball had pierced 
his thigh, inflicting a severe, though probably not a fatal wound. 
Another, and this had been enough, had penetrated directly be- 
hind the eyes, keeping its course so truly across, as to tear and 
turn the bloody orbs completely out upon the cheek beneath. 
The first words of the dying man were — 

“ Is the moon gone down — lights — bring lights !” 

“ No, Munro ; the moon is still shining without a cloud, and 
as brightly as if it were day ” was the reply of Ralph. 

“Who speaks — speak again, that I may know how to be- 
lieve, him.” 

“It is I, Munro — I, Ralph Colleton.” 

“ Then it is true — and I am a dead man. It is all over, and 
he came not to me for nothing. Yet, can I have no lights — 
^o lights? — Ah !” a id the half-reluctant reason grew more ter- 


PURSUIT — DEATH. 


447 


ribly conscious of his situation, as he thrust his fingers into the 
bleeding sockets from which the fine and delicate conductor of 
light had been so suddenly driven. He howled aloud for sev- 
eral moments in his agony — in the first agony which came with 
that consciousness — but, recovering, at length, he spoke with 
something of calm and coherence. 

“ Well, Mr. Colleton, what I said was true. I knew it would 
be so. I had warning enough to prepare, and I did try, but it’s 
come over soon and nothing is done. I have my wages, and the 
text spoke nothing but the truth. I can not stand this pain long 
— it is too much — and — ” 

The pause in his speech, from extreme agony, was filled up 
by a shriek that rung fearfully amid the silence of such a scene, 
but it lasted not long. The mind of the landlord was not en- 
feebled by his weakness, even at such a moment. He recovered 
and proceeded : — 

“Yes, Mr. Colleton, I am a dead man. I have my wages — 
but my death is your life! Let me tell the story — and save 
you, and save Lucy — and thus — (oh, could I believe it for an 
instant) — save myself I But, no matter — we must talk of other 
things. Is that Brooks — is that Brooks beside me 

“No, it is I — Colleton.” 

“I know — I know,” impatiently — “who else?” 

“ Mr. Brooks, the jailer, is here — Ensign Martin and Brincle, 
of the Georgia guard,” was the reply of the jailer. 

“ Enough, then, for your safety, Mr. Colleton. They can 
prove it all, and then remember Lucy — poor Lucy 1 You will 
be in time — save her from Guy Rivers — Guy Rivers — the 
wretch — not Guy Rivers — no — there’s a secret — there’s a 
secret for you, my men, shall bring you a handsome reward. 
Stoop — stoop, you three — where are you? — stoop, and hear 
what I have to say ! It is my dying word ! — and I swear it 
by all things, all powers, all terrors, that can make an oath sol- 
emn with a wretch whose life is a long crime! Stoop — hear 
me — heed all — lose not a word — not a word — not a word ! 
Where are you ?” 

“We are here, beside you — we hear all that you say. Go 
on !” 

“Guy Rivers is not his name — he is not Guy Rivers — hear 


448 


GUY RIVERS. 


now — Guy Rivers is the outlaw for whom the governor’s proc- 
lamation gives a high reward — a thousand dollars — the man 
who murdered Judge Jessup. Edward Creighton, of Gwinnett 
courthouse — he is the murderer of Jessup — he is the murderer 
of Forrester, for whose death the life of Mr. Colleton here is for- 
feit ! I saw him kill them both! — I saw more than that, but 
that is enough to save the innocent man and punish the guilty ! 
Take down all that I have said. I, too, am guilty ! would 
make amends, but it is almost too late — the night is very dark, 
and the earth swings about like a cradle. Ah ! — have you ta- 
ken down on paper what I said ? I will tell you nothing more 
till all is written — write it down — on paper — every word — 
write that before I say any more !” 

They complied with his requisition. One of the troopers, on 
a sheet of paper furnished by the jailer, and placed upon the 
saddle of his horse, standing by in the pale light of the moon, 
recorded word after word, with scrupulous exactness, of the dy- 
ing man’s confession. He proceeded duly to the narration of 
every particular of all past occurrences, as we ourselves have 
already- detailed them to the reader, together with many more, 
unnecessary to our narrative, of which we had heretofore no 
cognizance. When this was done, the landlord required it to 
bo read, commenting, during its perusal, and dwelling, with 
more circumstantial minuteness, upon many of its parts. 

“ That will do — that will do ! Now swear me. Brooks! — 
you are in the commission — lift my hand and swear me, so 
that nothing be wanting to the truth ! What if there is no 
bible ?” he exclaimed, suddenly, as some one of the individuals 
present suggested a difficulty on this subject. 

“ What ! — because there is no bible, shall there be no truth 1 
I swear — though I have had no communion with God — I swear 
to the truth — by him ! Write down my oath — he is present — 
they say he is always present ! I believe it now— -I only wish 
I had always believed it ! I swear by him — he will not falsi- 
fy the truth ! — write down my oath, while I lift my hand to 
him! Would it were a prayer — but I can not pray — I am 
more used to oaths than prayers, and I can not pray ! Is it 
written — is it written? Look, Mr. Colleton, look — you know 
the law. If you are satisfied, I am. Will it do ?” ‘ 


f^trnsuiT — DEATH. 449 

Colleton replied quickly in the affirmative, and the dying 
man went on : — 

“ Remember Lucy — the poor Lucy ! You will take care of 
her. Say no harsh words in her ears — but, why should I ask 
this of you, whom — Ah! — it goes round — round — round — 
swimming — swimming. Very dark — very dark night, and 
the trees dance — Lucy — ” 

The voice sunk into a faint whisper whose sounds were un- 
syllabled — an occasional murmur escaped them once after, in 
which the name of his niece was again heard ; exhibiting, at 
the last, the affection, however latent, which he entertained in 
reality for the orphan trust of his brother. In a few moments, 
and the form stiffened before them in all the rigid sullenness of 
death. 


450 


OtJY RTVEIIS. 


CHAPTER XL. 
wolf’s neck — CAPTURE. 

The cupidity of liis captors had been considerably stimulated 
by the dying words of Munro. They were all of them familiar 
with the atrocious murder which, putting a price upon his head, 
had driven Creighton, then a distinguished member of the bar 
in one of the more civilized portions of the state, from the pale 
and consideration of society ; and their anxieties were now en- 
tirely addressed to the new object which the recital they had 
just heard had suggested to them. They had gathered from 
the narrative of the dying man some idea of the place in which 
they would most probably find the outlaw ; and, though without 
a guide to the spot, and altogether ignorant of its localities, they 
determined — without reference to others, who might only sub- 
tract from their own share of the promised reward, without con- 
tributing much, if any, aid, which they might not easily dispense 
with — at once to attempt his capture. This was the joint un- 
derstanding of the whole party, Ralph Colleton excepted. 

In substance, the youth was now free. The evidence fur- 
nished by Munro only needed the recognition of the proper 
authorities to make him so ; yet, until this had been effected, he 
remained in a sort of understood restraint, but without any ac- 
tual limitations. Pledging himself that they should suffer noth- 
ing from the indulgence given him, he mounted the horse of 
Munro, whose body was cared for, and took his course back to 
the village ; while, following the directions given them, the guard 
and jailer pursued their way to the Wolf’s Neck in their search 
after Guy Rivers. 

The outlaw had been deserted by nearly all his followers. 
The note of preparation and pursuit, sounded by the state au- 
thorities. had inspired the depredators with a degree of terror, 


wolf’s neck — CAPTDEB. 


461 


wliicli the neiT approximation of the guard, in strong numbers, 
to their most sechided places, had not a little tended to increase : 
and accordingly, at the pjiriod of which we now speak, the out- 
law, deserted by all hut one or two of the most daring of his 
followers — wh > were, how^ever, careful enough of themselves 
to keep in no one place long, and cautiously to avoid their ac- 
customed haunts — remained in his rock, in a state of gloomy 
despondency, not usually his characteristic. Had ho been less 
stubborn, less ready to defy all chances and all persons, it is 
not improbable that Rivers would have taken counsel by their 
flight, and removed himself, for a time at least, from the scene 
of danger. But his native obstinacy, and that madness of heart 
which, as we are told, seizes first upon him whom God seeks to 
destroy, determined him, against the judgment of others, and in 
part against his own, to remain where he was ; probably in the 
fallacious hope that the storm would pass over, as-'on so many 
pi t*.' ious occasions it had already done, and leave him again 
free t? his old practices in the same region. A feeling of pride, 
which made him unwilling to take a suggestion of fear and 
flight from the course of others, had some share in this decision ; 
and, if we add the vague hungering of his heart toward the 
lovely Edith, and possibly the influence of other pledges, and 
the imposing consideration of other duties, we shall not be 
greatly at a loss in understanding the injudicious indifference 
to the threatening dangers which appears to have distinguished 
the conduct of the otherwise politic and circumspect ruflian. 

That night, after his return from the village, and the brief 
dialogue with Chub Williams, as we have already narrated it, 
he retired to the deepest cell of his den, and, throwing himself 
into a seat,. covering his face with his hands, he gave himself 
up to a meditation as true in its philosophy as it was humilia- 
ting throughout in its application to himself. Dillon, his lieu- 
tenant — if such a title may be permitted in such a place, and 
! for such a person — came to him shortly after his arrival, and 
in brief terms, with a blunt readiness — which, coming directly 
to the point, did not offend the person to whom it was ad- 
dressed — demanded Lo know what he meant to do with himself. 

'‘We can’t stay here any longer,” said he; ” the troops are 
gathering all round us. The country’s alive witn them, and ia 


462 


GUY RIVERS. 

a few days we shouldn’t be able to stir from the hollow of a 
tree without popping into the gripe of some of our hunters. In 
the Wolfs Neck they will surely seek us; for, though a veiy 
fine place for us while the country’s thin, yet even its old own- 
ers, the wolves, would fly from it when the horn of the hunter 
rings through the wood. It won’t be very long before they 
pierce to the very ‘ nation,’ and then we should have but small 
chance of a long grace. Jack Ketch would make mighty small 
work of our necks, in his hurry to go to dinner.” 

“And what of all this — what is all this to mel” was the 
strange and rather phlegmatic response of the outlaw, who did 
not seem to take in the full meaning of his officer’s speech, and 
whose mind, indeed, was at that moment wandering to far other 
considerations. Dillon seemed not a little surprised by this 
reply, and looked inquiringly into the face of the speaker, doubt- 
ing for a moment his accustomed sanity. The stern look which 
his glance encountered directed its expression elsewhere, and, 
after a moment’s pause, he replied — 

“ Why, captain, you can’t have thought of what I’ve been 
saying, or you wouldn’t speak as you do. I think it’s a great ^ 
deal to both you and me, what I’ve been telling you ; and the 
soon'er you come to think so too, the better. It’s only yester- 
day afternoon that I narrowly missed being seen at the forks 
by two of the guard, well mounted, and with rifles. I had but 
the crook of the fork in my favor, and the hollow of the creek 
at the old ford where it’s been washed away. They’re all ^ 
round us, and I don’t think we’re safe here another day. In- 
deed, I only come to see if you wouldn’t be off with me, at once, j 
into the ‘ nation.’ ” j 

“ You are considerate, but must go alone. I have no appre- i 
hensions where I am, and shall not stir for the nresent. For J 
yourself, you must determine as you think proper. I have no 
further hold on your service. I release you from the oath. . 
Make the best of your way into the ‘ nation’ — ay, go yet far- 
ther; and, hear me, Dillon, go where you are unknown — go- 
where you can enter society ; seek for the fireside, where you 
can have those who, in the dark hour, will have no wish to de- 
sert you. I have no claim now upon you, and the sooner you 
‘take the range’ the better.” 


wolf’s neck — CAPTU:iE. 


45 & 


“And why noi go along with me, captain? I hate to go 
alone, and hate to leave you where you are. I shan’t think 
you out of danger while you stay here, and don’t see any rea- 
son for you to do S3.” 

“ Perhaps not, Dillon ; but there is reason, or I should not 
stay. We may not go together, even if I were to fly— -our 
paths lie asunder. They may never more be one. Go you, 
therefore, and heed me not j and think of me no more. Make 
yourself a home in the Mississippi, or on the Red river, and get 
yourself a fireside and family of your own. These are the 
things that Avill keep your heart warm within you, cheering you 
in hours that are dark, like this.” 

“And why, captain,” replied the lieutenant, much affected — 
“ why should you not take the course which you advise for 
me ? Why not, in the Arkansas, make yourself a home, and 
with a wife — ” 

“Silence, sir! — not a word of that! Why come you to 
chafe me here in my den ? Am I to be haunted for ever with 
such as you, and with words like these ?” and the brow of the 
outlaw blackened as he spoke, and his white teeth knit together, 
fiercely gnashing for an instant, while the foam worked its way 
through the occasional aperture between them. The ebullition 
of passion, however, lasted not long, and the outlaw himself, a 
moment after, seemed conscious of its injustice. 

“ I do you wrong, Dillon ; but on this subject I will have no 
one' speak. I car. not be the man you would have me ; I have 
been schooled otherwise. My mother has taught me a different 
lesson : her teachings have doomed me, and these enjoyments 
are now all beyond my hope.” 

“ Your mother ?” was the response of Dillon, in unaffected 
astonishment. 

“Ay, man — my mother! Is there anything wonderful in 
that ? She taught me the love of evil with her milk — she sang 
it in lullabies over my eradle — she gave it me in the play- 
things of my boyhood; her schoolings have made me the mor- 
bid, the fierce criminal, the wilful, vexing spirit, from whose 
association all the gentler virtues must always desire to fly. If, 
in the doom which may finish my life of doom, I have any one 
person to accuse of all, that person is — my mother!” 


454 


GUy RITERS. 


“Is tins possible? Can it be true? It is strange — very 
strange !” 

“It is not strange; we see it every day — in almost every 
family. Sbe did not teU me to lie, or to swindle, or to stab — 
no ! oh, no ! she would have told me that all these things were 
bad ; but she taught me to perform them all. She roused my 
passionsy and not my principles, into activity. She provoked 
the one, and suppressed the other. Did my father reprove my 
improprieties, she petted me, and denounced him. She crossed 
his better purposes, and defeated all his designs, until, at last, 
she made my passions too strong for my government, not less 
than hers, and left me, knowing the true, yet the victim of the 
false. Thus it was that, while my intellect, in its calmer hours, 
taught me that virtue is the only source of true felicity, my un- 
governable passions set the otherwise sovereign reason at defi- 
ance, and trampled it under foot. Yes, in that last hour of eter- 
nal retribution, if called upon to denounce or to accuse, I can 
point but to one as the author of all — the weakly-fond, mis- 
judging, misguiding woman who gave me birth ! 

“ Within the last hour I have been thinking over all these 
things. I have been thinking how I had been cursed in child- 
hood by one who surely loved me beyond all other things be- 
sides. I can remember how sedulously she encouraged and 
prompted my infant passions, uncontrolled by her authority and 
reason, and since utterly unrestrainable by my own. How she 
stimulated me to artifices, and set me the example herself, by 
frequently deceiving my father, and teaching me to disobey and 
deceive him ! She told me not to lie ; and she lied all day to 
him, on my account, and to screen me from his anger. She 
taught me the catechism, to say on Sunday, while during the 
week she schooled me in almost every possible form of ingenuity 
to violate all its precepts. She bribed me to do my duty, and 
hence my duty could only be done under the stimulating prom- 
ise of a reward ; and, without the reward, I went counter to ^he 
duty. She taught me that God was superior to all, and that he 
required obedience to certain laws ; yet, as she hourly violated 
those laws herself in ray behalf, Irwas taught to regard myself 
as far superior to him ! Had she not done all this, I had not 
been here thus : I had been what now J dare not think on^ 


wolf’s neck — CAPTURE 456 

It is all her work. The greatest enemy my life has ever known 
has been my mother!” 

“ This is a horrible thought, captain ; yet I can not but think 
it true.” 

“ It is true ! I have analyzed my own history, and the causes 
of my character and fortunes now, and I charge it all upon her. 
From one influence I have traced another, and another, until T 
have the sweeping amount of twenty years of crime and sorrow, 
and a life of hate, and probably a death of ignominy — all owing 
to the first ten years of my infant education, where the only 
teacher that I knew was the woman who gave me birth ! — But 
this concerns not you. In my calm mood, Dillon, you have the 
fruit of my reason : to abide its dictate, I should fly with you ; 
but I suffer from my mother’s teachings even in this. My pas 
sions, my pride, my fierce hope — the creature of a maddening 
passion — will not let me fly; and I stay, though I stay alone, 
with a throat bare for the knife of the butcher, or the halter of 
the hangman. I will not fly !” 

“And I will stay with you. I can dare something, too, cap- 
tain ; and you shall not say, when the worst comes to the worst, 
that Tom Dillon was the man to back out. I will not go either, 
and, whatever is the chance, you shall not be alone.” 

Rivers, for a moment, seemed touched by the devotion of 
his follower, and was silent for a brief interval ; but suddenly 
fhe expression of his eye was changed, and he spoke briefly 
and sternly : — 

“ You shall not stay with me, sir 1 What ! am I so low as 
this, that I may not be permitted to be alone when I will ? 
Will my subordinates fly in my face, and presume to disobey 
my commands? Go, Dillon — have I not said that you must 
fly — that I no longer need your services? Why linger, then, 
where you are no longer needed ? I have that to perform which 
requires me to be alone, and I have no further time to spare 
you. Go — away!” 

“Do you really speak in earnest, captain?” inquired the 
lieutenant, doubtingly, and with a look of much concern. 

“ Am I so fond of trifling, that my officer asks me suQh « 
question ?” was the stern response, 


456 


GUY RIVERS. 


“Tlieu I am your officer still — you will go with me, or 1 
shall remain.” 

“ Neither, Dillon. The time is past for such an arrangement. 
You are discharged from my service, and from your oath. The 
club has no further existence. Go — be a happy, a better man, 
in another part of the world. You have some of the weak- 
nesses of your better nature still in you. You had no mother 
to change them into scorn, and strife, and bitterness. Go — 
you may be a better man, and have something, therefore, for 
which to live. I have not — my heart can know no change. 
It is no longer under the guidance of reason. It is quite un- 
governable now. There was a time when — but why prate of 
this ? — it is too late to think of, and only maddens me the more. 
Besides, it makes not anything with you, and would detain you 
without a purpose. Linger no longer, Dillon — speed to the 
west, and, at some future day, perhaps you shall see me when 
you least expect, and perhaps least desire it.” 

The manner of the outlaw was firm and commanding, and 
Dillon no longer had any reason to doubt his desires, and no 
motive to disobey his wishes. The parting was brief, though 
the subordinate was truly affected. He would have lingered 
still, but Rivers waved him off with a farewell, whose emphasis 
was effectual, and, in a few moments, the latter sat once more 
alone. 

His mood was that of one disappointed in all things, and, 
consequently, displeased and discontented with all things — 
querulously so. In addition to this temper, which was common 
to him, his spirit, at this time, labored under a heavy feeling of 
despondency, and its gloomy sullenness was perhaps something 
lighter to himself while Dillon remained with him. We have 
seen the manner in which he had hurried that personage off. 
He had scarcely been, gone, however, when the inconsistent 
and variable temper of the outlaw found utterance in the fol- 
lowing soliloquy : — 

“Ay, thus it is — they all desert me; and this is human 
feeling. They all fly the darkness, and this is human courage. 
They love themselves only, or you only while you need no 
love ; and this is human sympathy. I need all of these, yet I 
get none j and when I most need, and most desire, and mos^ 


WOLFES NECK — CAPTURE. 


457 


Beck to obtain, I am the least provided. These are the fruits 
which I have sown, however; should I shrink to gather them? 

Yet, there is one — but one of all — whom no reproach of 
mine could drive away, or make indifferent to my fate. But I 
will see her no more. Strange madness ! The creature, who, 
of all the world, most loves me, and is most deserving of my 
love, I banish from my soul as from my sight. And this is 
another fruit of my education — another curse that came with a 
mother — this wilful love of the perilous and the passionate — 
this scorn of the gentle and the soft — this fondness for the 
fierce contradiction — this indifference to the thing easily won 
— this thirst after the forbidden. Poor Ellen — so gentle, so 
resigned, and so fond of her destroyer ; but I will not see her 
again. I must not ; she must not stand in the way of my 
anxiety to conquer that pride which had ventured to hate or 
to despise me. I shall see Munro, and he shall lose no time in 
this matter. Yet, what can he be after — lie should have been 
here before this ; it now wants but little to the morning, and — 
ah ! I have not slept. Shall I ever sleep again !” 

Thus, striding to and fro in his apartment, the outlaw solilo- 
quized at intervals. Throwing himself at length upon a rude 
couch that stood in the corner, he had disposed himself as it 
were for slumber, when tlie noise, as of a falling rock, attracted 
his attention, and without pausing, ho cautiously took his way 
to the entrance, with a view to ascertain the cause. He was 
not easily surprised, and the knowledge of surrounding danger 
made him doubly observant, and more than over watchful. 

Let us now return to the party which had pursued the fugi- 
tives, and which, after the death of the landlord, had, as we 
have already narrated, adopting the design suggested by his 
dying words, immediately set forth in search of the notorious 
outlaw, eager for the reward put upon his head. Having 
already Gome general idea of the whereabouts of the fugitive, 
and the directions given by Munro having been of the most 
specific character, they found little difficulty, after a moderate 
ride of some four or five miles, in striking upon the path directly 
leading to the Wolf’s Neck. 

At this time, fortunately for their object, they were encoun- 
tered suddenly b^ our old acquaintance, Chub Williams, whom, 


nay RivERi? 


45 ^ 

bill little before, we have seen separating from the mdi? ideal 
in whose pursuit they were now engaged. The deformed 
quietly rode along with the party, but without seeming to 
recognise their existence — singing all the while a strange 
woodland melody of the time and region — probably the pro- 
duction of some village wit 

“ Her frock it was a yaller, 

And she was mighty^prigh 
And she bounced at many a feller 
Who came a-fighting shy. 

“ Her eye was like a sarpent’s eye. 

Her cheek was like a flower, 

But her tongue was like a pedler’s clock, 

’Twas a-striking every hour. 

“ And wasn’t she the gal for me, 

And wasn’t she, I pray, sir, 

And. I’ll be drot, if you eay not, 

VVe’ll fight this very day, sir, 

We’i! 2 this very day, sir.” 

Having delivered himself of this choice morsel of song, the 
balf-witted fellow conceitedly challenged the attention of the 
group whom he had not hitherto been disposed to see. 

“ ’Spose you reckon I don’t see you, riding ’longside of me, 
and saying nothing, but listening to my song. I’m singing for 
iny own self, and you oughtn’t to listen — I didn’t ax you, and 
I’d like to know what you’re doing so nigh Chub’s house.” 

“Why, where’s your house. Chub?” asked one of the party. 

“ You ain’t looking for it, is you ? ’cause you can’t think to 
find it a-looking down. I lives in the tree-top when weather’s 
good like to-night, and when it ain’t, I go into the hollow. I’ve 
a better house than Guy Rivers — he don’t take the tree at all, 
no how.” 

“ And where is his house. Chub ?” was the common inquiry 
of all the party. The dwarf looked at them for a few moments 
without speech, then with a whisper and a gesture significant 
of caution, replied — 

“ If you’re looking for Guy, ’tain’t so easy to find him if he 
don’t want to be found, and you must speak softly if you hunt 
him, whether or no. He’s a dark man, that Guy Rivers — 


wolf’s neck — CAPTURE. 

mother always said so — and he lives a long way ondei the 
ground.'’ 

“ And can’t you show us where, Chub ] We will give you 
money for your service.” 

“ Hain’t you got ’tatoes ? Chub’s hungry — hain’t eat nothing 
to-night. Guy Rivers has plenty to eat, but he cursed Chub’s 
mother.” 

“Well, show us where he is, and we’ll give you plenty tc 
eat. Plenty of potatoes and corn,” was the promise of the 
party. 

“ And build up Chub’s house thUt the fire burnt ? Chub lives 
in the tree now. Guy Rivers’ man burnt Chub’s house, ’cause 
he said Chub was sassy.” 

“ Yes, my boy, we’ll build up your house, and give you a plenty 
to go upon for a year. You shall have potatoes enough for your 
lifetime, if you will show us how to come upon Guy Rivers to- 
night. He 13 a bad fellow, as you say ; and we won’t let him trou- 
ble you any more, if you’ll only show us where he is to be found.” 

“ Well — I reckon I can,” was the response, uttered in a con- 
fidential whisper, and much more readily given than was the 
wont of the speaker. “ Chub and Guy talked together to-night, 
anl Guy wanted Chub to go with him into his house in Wolfs 
Neck. But Cliub don’t love the wolf, and he don’t love the 
Wolfs Neck, now that Miss Lucy’s gone^way from it. It’s a 
mighty dark place, the Wolfs Neck, and Chub’s afear’d in the 
dark places, where the moon and stars won’t shine down.” 

“ But you needn’t he afraid now, little Chub. You’re a good 
little fellow, and we’ll keep with you and follow close, and there 
shall be no danger to you. We’ll fight Guy Rivers for you, so 
that ho can’t hurt you any more.” 

“ You’ll fight Guy ! You ! Guy kin fight to kill !” 

“ Yes, but we’ll kill him ; only you show us where he is, so 
that we can catch him and tie him, and he’ll never trouble Chub 
any more.” 

“ What ! you’ll tie Guy ? How I’d like to see anybody tie 
Guy ! You kain’t tie Guy. He’d break through the ropes, he 
would, if he on’y stretched out his arms. 

“ You’ll see ! only show us how to find him, and we’ll tie him, 
mid wd’ll build you a new hoiisci and you shall have mors 


460 


GUY RIVERS. 


potatoes and corn than you can shake a stick it, and we’ll give 
you a groat ^jug of whiskey into the bargain.’ 

“ Now will you ! And a jug of whiskey too, and build a 
now house for Chub’s mother — and the corn, and the ’tatoes.” 

“ All ! you shall have all we promise.” 

“ Come ! come ! saftly ! put your feet down Laftly, for Guy’s 
got great white owls that watch for him, and they hoot from th5 
old tree when the horses are coming. Saftly ! saftly !” 

There is an idiocy that does not lack the vulgar faculty of 
mere shrewdness — that can calculate selfishly, and plan coolly 
— in short, can show itself oonningv whenever it ’ as a motive 
Find the motive for the insane and the idiotic, alv.’ays, if you 
would see them exercise the full extent of their little remaining 
wits. 

Chub Williams had a sagacity of this sort. His selfishness 
was appealed to, and all his faculties were on the alert. He gave 
directions for the progress of the party — after his own man- 
ner, it is true — but with sufiicient promptness and intelligence 
to satisfy them that they might rely upon him. Having reached 
a certain lonely spot among the hills, contiguous to the crag, or 
series of crags, called the Wolfs Neck, Chub made the party 
all dismount, and hide their horses in a thicket into which they 
found it no easy matter to penetrate. This done, he led them 
out again, cautiously ^^moving along under cover, but near the 
margin of the road. He stept as lightly himself as a squirrel, 
taking care, before throwing his weight upon his foot, to feel 
that there was no rotting branch or bough beneath, the break- 
ing of which might occasion noise. 

“ Saftly ! saftly !” he would say in a whisper, turning bach 
to the party, when he found them treading hurriedly and heav- 
ily upon the brush. Sometimes, again, he ran ahead of all of 
them, and for a few moments would be lost to sight ; but he 
usually returned, as quickly and quietly as he went, and would 
either lead them forward on the same route with confidence, or 
alter it, according to his discoveries. He was literally feeling 
his way ; the instincts and experience of the practised scout 
finding no sort of obstacle in the deficiency of his reasoning 
powers. 

His processes did tiot argue aily doubts of his eourse j only 


wolf’s neck — CAPTURE. 


461 


a cLoice of direction — such as would promise more ease and 
equal security. Some of his changes of movement, he tried to 
explain, in liis own fashion, when he came back to guide them 
on other paths. 

“Saftly back — saftly now, this way. Guy’s in his dark 
house in the rock, but there’s a many rooms, and ’t mout be, 
we’re a walking jest now, over his head. Then he mout hear, 
you see, and Guy’s got ears like the great owl. lie kin hear 
mighty far in the night, and see too ; and you mustn’t step into 
his holes. There’s heap of holes in Guy’s dark house. Saftly, 
now — and here away.” 

Briefly, the rocky avenues were numerous in the Wolfs 
Neck, and some of them ran near the surface. There were 
sinks upon the surface also, covered with brush and clay, into 
which the unthinking wayfarer might stumble, perhaps into 
the very cavern where the outlaw at that moment housed him- 
self. The group around the idiot did not fail to comprehend 
the reasons for all his caution. They confided to his skill im- 
plicitly; having, of themselves, but small knowledge of the 
wild precincts into which they desired to penetrate. 

Having, at length, brought them to points and places, which 
afforded them the command of the avenues to the rock, the 
next object of their guide was to ascertain where the outlaw 
was at that moment secreted. It was highly important to know 
where to enter — where to look — and not waste time in fruitless 
search of places in which a single man might have a dozen 
blind seekers at his mercy. The cunning of the idiot conceived 
this necessity himself. 

His policy made each of the party hide himself out of sight, 
though in a-position whence each might see. 

All arranged as he desired, the urchin aimed himself with a 
rock, not quite as large as his own head, but making a most 
respectable approach to it. This, with the aid of coat and ker- 
chief he secured upon his back, bet w^een his shoulders; and 
thus laden, he yet, with the agility of the opossum, her young 
ones in her pouch, climbed up a tree which stood a little above 
that inner chamber wdiich Guy Eivers had appropriated for him- 
self, and where, on more occasions than one, our idiot had peep- 
ed in upon him Perched in his tree securely, and shrouded 


462 


GUY RlVUtlS. 


from sight among its boughs, the urchin disengaged the rock 
from his shoulders, took it in both his hands, and carefully se- 
lecting its route, he pitched it, with all his might, out from the 
tree, and in such a direction, that, after it had fairly struck the 
eartli, it continued a rolling course down the declivity of the 
rocks, making a heavy clatter all the way it went. 

The ruse answered its purpose. The keen senses of the out- 
law caught the sound. His vigilance, now doubly keen, awa- 
kened to its watch. We have seen, in previous pages, the ef- 
fect that the rolling stone had upon the musing and vexed spirit 
of Guy Rivers, after the departure of Dillon. He came forth, 
as we have seen, to look about for the cause of alarm ; and, as 
if satisfied that the disturbance was purely accidental, had re- 
tired once more to the recesses of his den. 

Here, throwing himself upon his couch, he seemed disposed 
to sleep. Sleep, indeed ! He himself denied that he ever 
slept. Ilis followers were all agreed that when he did sleep, 
it was only with half his faculties shut up. One eye, they con- 
tended, was always open ! 

Chub Williams, and one of the hunters had seen the figure 
of the outlaw as he emerged from the cavern. The former in- 
stantly identified him. The other was too remote to distinguish 
anything but a slight human outline, which he could only de- 
termine to be such, as he beheld its movements. He was too 
far to assault, the light was too imperfect to suffer him to shoot 
with any reasonable certainty of success, and the half of the 
reward sought by his pursuers, depended upon the outlaw being 
taken alive ! 

But, there was no disappointment among the hunters. Al- 
lowing the outlaw sufficient time to return to his retreats. Chub 
Williams slipped down his tree — the rest of the party slowly 
emerged from their several places of watch, and drew together 
for consultation. 

In this matter, the idiot could give them little help. He 
could, and did, describe, in some particulars, such of the inte- 
rior as he had been enabled to see on former occasions, but be- 
yond this he could do nothing ; and he was resolute not to 
hazard himself in entering the dominion of a personage, so 
fearful as Guy Rivers, in such companionship as would surely 


wolf’s neck — CAPTURE. 


463 


sioinpel tlie wolf to turn at bay. Alone, bis confidence in bis 
own stealth and secresy, would encourage bim to penetrate ; 
but, now ! — be only grinned at tbe suggestion of tbe hunters ; 
saying shrewdly: “No! thank you! I’ll stay out here and 
keep Chub’s company.” 

Accordingly, he remained without, closely gathered up into 
a lump, behind a tree, while the more determined Georgians 
penetrated with cautious pace into the dark avenue, known in 
the earlier days of the settlement as a retreat for the wolves 
when they infested that portion of the country, and hence dis- 
tinguished by the appellation of the Wolfs Neck. 

For some time they groped onward in great uncertamty as 
to their course ; but a crevice in the wall, at one point, gave 
them a glimmer of the moonlight, which, falling obliquely upon 
the sides of the cavern, enabled them to discern the mouth of 
another gorge diverging from that in which they were. They 
entered, and followed this new route, until their farther progress 
was arrested by a solid wall which seemed to close them in, 
hollowly caved from all quarters, except the one narrow point 
from which they had entered it. 

Here, then, they were at a stand ; but, according to Chub’s 
directions, there must be a mode of ingress to still another cham- 
ber from this ; and they prepared to seek it in the only possible 
way ; namely, by feeling along the wall for the opening which 
their eye had failed to detect. They had to do this on handf 
and knees, so low was the rock along the edges of the cavern. 

The search was finally successful. One of the party fouii« 
the wall to give beneath his hands. There was an aperture, t 
mere passage-way for wolf or bear, lying low in the wall, and 
only closed by a heavy curtain of woollen. 

This was an important discovery. The opening led direct!) 
into the chamber of the outlaw. How easily it could be de 
fended, the hunters perceived at a glance. The inmate of tl>c^ 
cavern, if wakeful and courageous, standing above the gorge 
with a single hatchet, could brain every assailant on the first 
appearance of his head. How serious, then, the necessity of 
being able to know that the occupant of the chamber slept — 
that occupant being Guy Rivers. 4'he pursuers well knew 
what they might expect at his hands, driven to his last fastness* 


464 


GUT RIVERS. 

with tho spear of the hunter at his throat. Did he sleep, then 
— the man who never slept, according to the notion of his fol- 
lowers, or with one eye always open ! 

He did sleep, and never more soundly than now, when safe- 
ty required that he should he most on the alert. But there is a 
limit to the endurance of the most iron natures, and the outlaw 
had overpassed his bounds of strength. He was exhausted by 
trying and prolonged excitements, and completely broken down 
by physical efforts which would have destroyed most other men 
outright. His subdued demeanor — his melancholy — were all 
due to this condition of absolute exhaustion. He slept, not a 
refreshing sleep, hut one in which the excited spirit kept up its 
exercises, so as totally to neutralize what nature designed as 
compensation in his slumbers. His sleep was the drowse of in- 
capacity, not the wholesome respite of elastic faculties. It was 
actual physical imbecility, rather than sleep ; and, while the 
mere animal man, lay incapable, like a log, the diseased ima- 
gination was at work, conjuring up its spectres as wildly and 
as changingly, as the wizard of the magic-lanthorn evokes his 
monsters against the wall. 

His limbs writhed while he slept. His tongue was busy in 
audible speech. He had no secrets, in that mysterious hour, 
from night, and silence, and his dreary rocks. His dreams told 
him of no other auditors. 

The hunter, who had found and raised the curtain that sep- 
arated his chamber from the gloomy gorges of the crag, paused, 
and motioned his comrades back, while he listened. At first 
there was nothing but a deep and painful breathing. The out- 
law breathed with effort, and the sigh became a groan, and he 
writhed upon the bed of moss which formed his usual couch in 
the cavern. Had ^he spectator been able to see, the lamp sus- 
pended from a ring in the roof of the cavern, though burning 
very dimly, would have shown him the big-headed drops of 
sw^eat that now started from the brows of the sleeper. But he 
.:!ould hear ; and now a word, a name, falls from the outlaw’s 
Ups — it is followed by murmured imprecations. The feverish 
frame, tortured by the restless and guilt-goading spirit, writhed 
;is ho delivered the curses in broken accents. These, finally^ 
grew into perfect sentences. 


wolf’s neck — CAPTUHE. 


46 & 


“ Dying like a dog, in her sight ! Ay, she shall see it ! I 
w^ill hiss in her ears as she gazes — ‘It is my work! this is my 
revenge!’ Ha* ha! where her pride then? — her high birth 
and station?— wealth, family? Dust, shame, agony, and 
death !” 

Such were the murmured accents of the sleeping man, when 
they were distinguishable by the hunter, who, crouching beneath 
the curtain, listened to his sleeping speech. But all was not ex- 
ultation. The change from the voice of triumph to that of wo 
was instantaneous ; and the curse and the cry, as of one in mor- 
tal agojiy, pain or terror, followed the exulting speech. 

The Georgian, now apprehensive that the outlaw would 
awaken, crept forward, and, still upon his hands and knees, 
was now fairly within the vaulted chamber. He was closely fol- 
lowed by one of his companions. Hitherto, they had proceed- 
ed with great caution, and with a stealth and silence that were 
almost perfect. But the third of the party to enter — who was 
Brooks, the jailer — more eager, or more unfortunate, less pru- 
dent certainly — not sufficiently stooping, as the other two had 
done, or rising too soon — contrived to strike with his head the 
pole which bore the curtain, and which, morticed in the sides of 
the cavern, ran completely across the awkward entrance. A 
ringing noise was the consequence, while Brooks himself was 
precipitated back into the passage, with a smart cut over his 
brows. 

The noise was not great, but quite sufficient to dissipate the 
slumbers of the outlaw, whose sleep was never sound. With 
that decision and fierce courage which marked his character, he 
sprang to his feet in an instant, grasped the dirk which he al- 
ways carried in his bosom, and leaped forward, like a tiger, in 
the direction of the narrow entrance. Familiar with all the 
sinuosities of his den, as well in daylight as in darkness, the 
chances might have favored him even with two powerful ene- 
mies within it. Certainly, had there been but one, he could have 
dealt with him, and kept out others. But the very precipitation 
of the jailer, while it occasioned the alarm, had the effect, in 
. ne particular, of neutralizing its evil consequences. The two 
who had already penetrated the apartment, had net yet risen 
from their knees-— in the dim light of the laftip, they remained 

£ 0 * 


GUY RIVERS. 


unseen — they were crouching, indeed, directly under the lamp, 
Lhe rays of whi:5h lighted dimly the extremes, rather than the 
centre of the cell. They lay in the way of the outlaw, as he 
sprang, and, as he dashed forward from his couch toward the 
passage-way, his feet were caught by the Georgian who had 
first entered, and so great was the impetus cf his first awaken- 
ing effort, that he was precipitated with a severe fall over tlie 
second of the party ; and, half stunned, yet still striking furi 
ously, the dirk of Rivers found a bloodless sheath in the earth 
en floor of the cell. In a moment, the two were upon him, and 
by the mere weight of their bodies alone, they kept him down. 

“ Surrender, Guy ! we’re too much for you, old fellow !” 

There was a short struggle. Meanwhile, Brooks, the jailer, 
joined the party. 

We’re three on you, and there’s more without.” 

The outlaw was fixed to the ground, beneath their united 
weight, as firmly as if the mountain itself was on him. As soon 
as he became conscious of the inutility of further struggle — and 
he could now move neither hand nor foot — he ceased all further 
effort ; like a wise man economizing his strength for future oc- 
casions. Without difficulty the captors bound him fast, then 
dragged him through the narrow entrance, the long rocky 
gorges which they had traversed, until they all emerged into 
the serene light of heaven, at the entrance of the cavern. 

Here the idiot boy encountered them, now coming forward 
boldly, and staring in the face of the captive with a feonfidence 
which he had never known before. He felt that his fangs wer& 
drawn ; and his survey of the person his mother had taught bin* 
so to dread, was as curious as that which he would have t'.ken 
of some foreign monster. As he continued this survey, Rivei’s, 
with a singular degree of calmness for such a time, and such 
circumstances, addressed him thus : — 

“So, Chub, this is your work; — you have brought enemies 
to my home, boy ! Why have you done this ? What have I 
done to you, but good ? I gave bread to your mother and your- 
self!” 

“ Psho ! Chub is to have his own breed, his own Corn, and 
'tatCrs, too, aiid a whole jug ^f whiskey.’ 

4)? I y6\i iifvve feoid yourself for thesej then, tO liiy dnetni^jt. 


wolf’s neck CAPTUKE. 


467 


You are a bad fellow, Chub — a worse fellow than I thought you. 
As au idiot, I fancied you might be honest and grateful.” 

“ You’re bad yourself, Mr. Guy. Y^ou cursed Chub, and you 
cui-sed Chub’s mother; and your man burnt down Chub’s house, 
and you wanted to shoot Chub on the tree.” 

“ But I didn’t shoot. Chub ; and I kept the men from shoot- 
ing you when you ran away from the cave.” 

You can’t shoot now,” answered the idiot, with an exulting 
chuckle ; “ and they’ll keep you in the ropes, Mr. Guy; they’ve 
got you on your back, Mr. Guy ; and I’m going to laugh at you 
all the way as you go. Ho ! ho ! ho ! See if I don’t laugh, 
till I scares away all your white owls from the roost.” 

The outlaw looked steadily in the face of the wretched ur- 
chin, with a curious interest, as he half murmured to himself : — 
‘‘ And that I should fall a victim to such a thing as this ! 
The only creature, perhaps, whom I spared or pitied — so 
wretched, yet so ungrateful. But there is an instinct in it. It 
is surely in consequence of a law of nature. He hates in pro- 
portion as he fears. Yet he has had nothing but protection 
from me, and kindness. Nothing ! I spared him, when — 
but — ” as if suddenly recollecting himself, and speaking aloud 
and with recovered dignity : — 

I am your prisoner, gentlemen. Ho with me as you 
please.” 

“ Hurrah ! ” cried the urchin, as he beheld the troopers lift- 
ing and securing the outlaw upon the horse, while one of the 
party leaped up behind him — one of his hands managing the 
bridle, and the other grasping firmly the rope wliich secured 
the captive ; ‘‘ hurrah ! Guy’s in the rope ! Guy’s in the rope ! ” 
ihus cried the urchin, following close behind the party,, upon 
liis mountain-tacky. That cry, from such a quarter, more sen- 
sibly than anything besides, mocked the outlaw with the fullest 
sense of his present impotence. With a bitter feeling of humili- 
ation, his head dropped upon his breast, and he seemed to lose 
all regard to his progress. Daylight found him safely locked 
up in the jail of Chestatee, the occupant of the very cell from 
which Colleton had escaped. 

But no such prospect of escape was befoi te him. He could 
Stimuiaiid nf tliat bad wbrked fot his Hval. 


468 


GUY RIVERS. 


He Iiacl no friends left. Mimro was slain, Dillon gone, and 
even the miserable idiot had turned his fangs upon the hand 
that fed him. Warned, to©, by the easy escape of Colleton, 
Brooks attended no more whiskey-parties, nor took his brother- 
in-law Tongs again into his friendly counsels. More — he doubly 
ironed his prisoner, whose wiles and resources he had more rea- 
son to fear than those which his former captive could command. 
To cut oj0f more fully every hope which the outlaw might enter- 
tain of escape from his bonds and durance, a detachment of the 
Georgia guard, marching into the village that very day, w'as 
put in requisition, by the orders of the judge, for the better 
security of the prisoner, and of public order. 


QUlKT Passages and new relations. 


469 


CHAPTER XLI. 

QUIET PASSAGES AND NEW RELATIONS. 

W K have already reported the return of Lucy Munro to the 
village-inn of Chestatee. Here, to her own and the surprise of 
all other parties, her aunt was quietly reinstated in her old au- 
thority — a more perfect one now — as housekeeper of that 
ample mansion. The reasons which determined her liege upon 
her restoration to the household have been already reported to 
the reader. His prescience as to his own approaching fate was 
perhaps not the least urgent among them. He fortunately left 
her in possession, and we know how the law estimates this ad- 
vantage. Of her trials and sorrows, when she was made aware 
of her widowhood, we will say nothing. Sensitive natures will 
easily conjecture their extent and intensity. It is enough for 
the relief of such natures, if we say that the widow Munro was 
not wholly inconsolable. As a good economist, a sensible wo- 
man, with an eye properly regardful of the future, we are bound 
to suppose that she needed no lessons from Hamlet’s mother to 
make the cold baked funeral-meats answer a double purpose. 

But what of her niece ? We are required to be something 
more full and explicit in speaking to her case. The indisposi- 
tion of Lucy W'as not materially diminished by the circumstances 
following the successful effort to persuade the landlord to the 
rescue of Ralph Colleton. The feverish excitements natural to 
that event, and even the fruit of its fortunate issue, in the death 
of Munro, for whc m she really had a grateful regard, were not 
greatly lessened, though certainly something relieved, by the 
capture of Rivers, and ^is identification with the outlawed 
Creighton. She was now secure from him ; she had nothing 
farther to apprehend from the prosecution of his fearful suit ; 
and the death of her uncle, even if the situation of Riveis had 


<70 


GtJY RIVETL^. 


^eft liim free to urge it further, would, of itself, have relieved 
her from the only difficulty in the way of a resolute denial. 

So far, then, she was at peace. But a silent sorrow had made 
its way into her bosom, gnawing there with the noiselessness 
and certainty of the imperceptible worm, generated by the sun- 
light, in the richness of the fresh leaf, and wound up within its 
folds. She had no word of sorrow in her speech — she had no 
tear of sorrow in her eye — but there was a vacant sadness in 
the vague and wan expression of her face, that needed neither 
tears nor words for its perfect development. She was the vic- 
tim of a passion which — as hers was a warm and impatient 
spirit — was doubly dangerous ; and the greater pang of that 
passion came with the consciousness, which now she could no 
longer doubt, that it was entirely unrequited. She had beheld 
the recurn of Ralph Colleton ; she had heard from other lips 
than his of his release, and of the atoning particulars of lier 
uncle’s dcj’tl , in which he furnished all that was necessary in 
the way of testimony to the youth’s enlargement and security ; 
and tln'Ur'h she rejoiced, fervently and deeply, at the knowledge 
that so mu :h had been done for him, and so much by herself, 
she yet found i.o relief from the deep sadness of soul which 
necessarily came with her hopelessness. Busy tongues dwelt 
upon the loveliness of the Carolina maiden who had sought him 
in his prison — of her commanding stature, her elegance of form, 
her dignity of manner and expression, coupled with the warmth 
of a devoted love and a passionate admiration of the youth who 
had also so undesiringly made the conquest of her own heart. 
She heard all this in silence, but not without thought, She 
thought of nothing besides. The forms and images of the two 
happy lovers were before her eyes at all moments; and her 
active fancy pictured their mutual loves in colors so rich aiid 
v/arm, that, in utter despondency at last, she would throw her- 
self listlessly upon her couch, with sometimes an unholy hope 
that she might never again rise from it. 

But she was not forgotten. The youth she had so much 
served, and so truly saved, was neither thoughtless nor migrato- 
ful. Having just satisfied those most near and dear to him of 
his safety, and of the impunity which, after a few brief formic 
of law, the dying confession of the landlord would e:ive him 


QUIET PASSAGES AND NEW RELATIONS. 471^ 

and having takenj in the warm embrace of a true love, the form 
of the no-longer-withheld Edith to his arms, he felt that his 
next duty was to her for whom his sense of gratitude soon dis- 
covered that every form of acknowledgment must necessarily 
prove weak. 

At an early hour, therefore — these several duties having been 
done — Ealph made his appearance at the village-inn, and the 
summons of the youth soon brought Lucy from her chamber. 

She came freely and without hesitation, though her heart was 
tremulous with doubt and sorrow. She had nothing now to 
learn of her utter hopelessness, and her strength was gathered 
from her despair. Ealph was shocked at the surprising rav- 
ages which a few days of indisposition had made upon that fine 
and delicate richness of complexion and expression which had 
marked her countenance before. He had no notion that she 
was unhappy beyond the cure of time. On the contrary, with 
a modesty almost akin to dullness — having had no idea of his 
own influence over the maiden — he was disposed to regard the 
recent events — the death of Munro and the capture of Eivers 
— as they relieved her from a persecution which 'had been cru- 
elly distressing, rather calculated to produce a degree of relief, 
to which she had not for a long time been accustomed ; and 
which, though mingled up with events that prevented it from 
being considered matter for rejoicing, was yet not a matter for 
one in her situation very greatly to deplore. 

Her appearance, however, only made him more assiduously 
gentle and affectionate in the duties he had undertaken to perform. 
He approached her with the freedom of one wai*ranted by cir- 
cumstances in recognising in her person a relation next to the 
swxctest and the dearest in life. With the familiar regard of a 
brother, he took her hand, and, placing her beside him on the 
rude sofa of the humble parlor, he proceeded to those little in- 
quiries after her health, and of those about her, which usually 
form the opening topics of all conversation. He proceeded then 
to remind her of that trying night, when, in defiance of female 
fears, and laudably regardless of those staid checks and re- 
straints by which her sex would conceal or defend its weaknes- 
ses, she had dared to save his life. 

His manner, generallji warm and eager, dilated something 


m 


GUY RiYEilS. 


beyond its wont ; and if ever gratitude had yet its expression 
from human lips and in human language, it was poured forth at 
that moment from his into the ears of Lucy Munro. 

And she felt its truth ; she relied upon the uttered words of ^ 
the speaker ; and her eyes grew bright with a momentary kin- 
dling, her cheek Pushed under his glance, while her heart, losing 
something of the chillness which had so recently oppressed it, 
felt lighter and less desolate in that abode of sadness and sweet- 
ness, the bosom in which it dwelt. 

Yet, after all, when thought came again under the old aspect 
— when she remembered his situation and her own, she felt the 
shadow once more come over her with an icy influence. It was 
not gratitude which her heart craved from that of Ralph Colle- 
ton. The praise and the approval and the thanks of others 
might have given her pleasnie, but these were not enough from 
him ; and she sighed that he from whom alone love would be 
precious, had nothing les*^ frigid than gratitude to offer. But 
even that was much, and she felt it deeply. His approbation 
was not a little to a spirit whose reference to him was perpet- 
ual ; and when — her hand in his — he recounted the adventures 
of that night —when he dwelt upon her coTirage — upon her 
noble disregard of opinions which might have chilled in many 
of her sex tb.e nne natural currents of that godlike humanity 
which conventional forms, it is well to think, can not always 
fetter or abridge — when he expatiated upon all these things 
with all the fervor of his temperament — she with a due mod- 
esty, shrinking from the recital of her own performances — she 
felt every moment additional pleasure in his speech of praise. 
When, at lengtli, relating the particulars of the escape and 
death of Munro, lie proceeded, with all the tender caution of a 
brother, softening the sorrow into sadness, and plucking from 
grief as much of the sting as would else have caused the wound 
to rankle, she felt that though another might sway his heart 
and its richer affections, she was not altogether destitute of its 
consideration and its care. 

“And now, Lucy — my sweet sister — for my sister you are 
now — you will accede to your uncle’s prayer and mine — you 
will permit me to be your brother, and to provide for you as 
inch In t is wild region it fits not that you should longer 


QUIET PASSAGES AND NEW RELATIONS. 473 

abide. This wilderness is uncongenial — it is foreign to a na- 
ture like yours. You have been too long its tenant — mingling 
with creatures not made for your association, none of whom are 
capable of appreciating your worth. You must come with us, 
and live with my uncle — with my cousin Edith — ’’ 

“Edith?” — and she looked inquiringly, while a slight flush 
of the cheek and kindling of the eye in him followed the utter- 
ance of the single word by her, and accompanied his reply. 

“Yes, Edith — Edith Colleton, Lucy, is the name of my 
cousin, and the relationship will soon be something closer be- 
tween us. You will love her, and she, I know, will love you 
as a sister, and as the preserver of one so very humble as my 
self. It was a night of danger when you first heard her name, 
and saw her features ; and wh- n you and she will converse over 
that night and its events, I feel satisfied that it will bring you 
both only the closer to one another.” 

“We will not talk of it farther, Mr. Colleton — I would not 
willingly hear of it again. It is enough that you are now free 
from all such danger — enough that all things promise well for 
the future. Let not any thought of past evil, or of risk suc- 
cessfully encountered, obscure the prospect — let no thought of 
me produce an emotion, hostile, even for a moment, to your 
peace.’ 

“ And why should you think, my sweet girl, and with an air 
of such profound sorrow, that such a thought must be productive 
of such an emotion. Why should the circumstances so happily 
terminating, though perilous at first, necessarily bring sorrow 
with remembrance. Surely you are now but exhibiting the 
sometimes coy perversity which is ascribed to your sex. You 
are now, in a moment of calm, but assuming those winning 
playfulnesses of a sex, conscious of charm and power, which, 
in a time of danger, your more masculine thought had rejected 
as unbecoming. You forget, Lucy, that I have you in charge 
— that you are now my sister — that my promise to your de- 
parted uncle, not less than my own desire to that effect, makes 
me your guardian for the future— and that I am now come, 
hopeful of success, to take you with me to my own country, and 
to bring you acquainted with her — (I must keep no secret from 


474 


GUY RIVERS. 


yoii, who are my sister) — who has my heart — who — but yoL 
arc sick, Lucy. What means this emotion V 

“Nothing, nothing, Mr. Colleton. A momentary weakness 
from -ny late indisposition — ^it will soon be over. Indeed, I 
am already well. Go on, sir- - go on !” 

Lucy, why these titles Why such formality 1 Speak to 
me as if I were the new friend, at least, if you will not behold 
in me an old one. I have received too much good service from 
you to permit of this constraint. Call me Ralph — or Colleton 
— or — or — nay, look not so coldly — why not call me yoiur 
brother 

“Brother — brother be it then, Ralph Colleton — brother — 
brother. God knows, I need a brother now !” and the ice of 
her manner was tha\\^ed quickly by his appeal, in which her 
accurate sense, sufficiently unclouded usually by her feelings, 
though themselves at all times strong, discovered only the 
honest earnestness of truth. 

“Ah, now, you look — and now you are indeed my sister. 
Hear me, then, Lucy, and listen to all my plans. You have 
not seen Edith — my Edith now — you must be her sister too. 
She is now, or will be soon, something nearer to me than a 
sister — she is something dearer already. We shall immediately 
return to Carolina, and you will go along with us.” 

“It may not be, Ralph — I have determined otherwise. I 
will be your sister — as truly so as sister possibly could be — 
but I can not go with you. I have made other arrangements.” 

The youth looked up in astonishment. The manner of the 
1 , ’den was very resolute, and he knew not what to understand. 
S. ' proceeded, as she saw his amazement ; — 

“ It may not be as you propose, Mr. — Ralph — my brother — 
circumstances have decreed another arrangement — another, 
and perhaps a less grateful destiny for me.” 

“ But why, Lucy, if a less pleasant, or at least a doubtful 
arrangement, why yield to it — why reject my solicitation? 
What is the plan to which, I am sad to see, you so unhesita- 
tingly give the preference ?” 

“Not unhesitatingly — not Unhesitatingly, I assure you. I 
have thought upon it deeply and long, and the decisioU is that of 
my cooler th:>uglit and calmer judgments It rha^ te lii a thCru 


QUIET PASSAGES AND NEW RELATIONS. 475 

^and respects a less grateful arrangement than that which you 
offer me ; hut, at least, it will want one circumstance which 
would couple itself with your plan, and which would alone 
prompt mo to deny myself all its other advantages.” 

“ And what is that one circumstance, dear Lucy, which af- 
frights you so much] Let me know. What peculiarity of 
mine — what thoughtless impropriety — what association, which 
1 may remove, thus prevents your acceptance of my offer, and 
that of Edith] Speak — spare me not in what you shall say 
— hut let your thoughts have their due language, just as if you 
were — as indeed you are — my sister.” 

“ Ask me not, Ralph. I may not utter it. It must not ho 
whispered to myself, though I perpetually hear it. It is no 
impropriety — no peculiarity — no wrong thought or deed of 
yours, that occasions it. The evil is in me; and hence you 
can do nothing which can possibly change my determination.” 

“ Strange, strange girl ! What mystery is this ] Where is 
now that feeling of confidence, which led yor. to comply with 
my prayer, and consider me as your brother ] Why keep this 
matter from me — why withhold any particular, the knowledge 
of which might be productive of a remedy for all the difficulty.” 

“ Never — never. The knowledge of it would he destructive 
of all beside. It would be fatal — seek not, therefore, to know 
it — it would profit you nothing, and me it would crush for 
ever to the earth. Hear me, Ralph — -my brother! — hear me. 
Hitherto you have known me — I am proud to think — as a 
strong-minded woman, heedless of all things in her desire for 
the' good — for the right. In a moment of peril to you or to 
another, I would be the same woman. But the strength which 
supports through the trial, subsides when it is over. The 
ship that battles with the storms and the seas, with something 
like a kindred buoyancy, goes down with the calm that follows 
their violence. It is so with mo. I could do much much 
more than woman generally- — in the day of trial, but I am the 
weakest of my sex wheti it is oyer. Would you have the 
secret of these weaknesses in your possession, when you must 
know that the very consciousness, that it is beyond my own 
confrol, must be fatal to that pride of sex which, perhaps, only 
sustains me now ] Ask me not further, Ralph, on this subject* 


476 


GtJY RIVERS. 


I can tell you nothing ; I will tell you nothing ; and to press 
me farther must only be to estrange me the more. It is suffi- 
cient that I call you brother — that I pledge myself to love 
you as a sister -as sister never loved brother before. This is 
as much as I can do, Ralph Colleton — is it not enough 

The youth tried numberless arguments and entreaties, hut in 
vain, to shake her purpose ; and the sorrowful expression of his 
voice and manner, not less than of his language, sufficiently as- 
sured her of the deep mortification which he felt upon her deni- 
al. She soothed his spirit with a gentleness peculiarly her own, 
and, as if she had satisfied herself that she had done enough for 
the delicacy of her scruples in one leading consideration, she 
took care that her whole manner should be that of the most 
confiding and sisterly regard. She even endeavored to he 
cheerful, seeing that her companion, with her unlooked-for 
denial, had lost all his elasticity ; but without doing much to 
efface from his countenance the traces of dissatisfaction. 

“ And what are your plans, Lucy 'i Let me know them, at 
least. Let mo see how far they are likely to be grateful to 
y uir character, and to make ycu happy.” 

“ Happy ! happy !” and she uttered but the two words, with 
a brief interval bet^reen them, while her voice trembled, and the 
gathering suffusion in her large and thickly-fringed blue eyes at- 
tested, more than anything besides, the prevailing weakness of 
which she had spoken. 

Ay, happy, Lucy ! That is the word. You must not be 
permitted to choose a lot in life, in which the chances are not 
in favor of your happiness.” 

“ I look not for that now, Ralph,” was her reply, and with 
such hopeless despondency visible in her face as she spoke, 
that, with a deeper interest, taking her hand, he again urged 
the request she had already so recently denied. 

“ And why not, my sweet sister ? Why should you not an- 
ticipate happiness as well as the rest of us 1 Who has a better 
right to happiness than the young, the gentle, the beautiful, the 
good 1 — ^and you are all of these, Lucy ! You have the charms 
— the richer and more lasting charms — which, in the reflective 
mind, must always awaken admiration ! You have animation, 
talent, various and active — sentiment, the growth of truth, pro 


QUIET PASSAGES AXD NEW RELATIONS. 


477 


priety, and a lofty aim — no flippancy, no weak vanity — and 9 
gentle beauty, that woos Avliile it warms.” 

Iler face became very grave, as she drew back from him. 

Nay, my sweet Lucy ! why do you repulse me ? I speak 
nothing but the truth.” 

“ You mock me ! -— I pray you, mock me not. I have suffered 
much, Mr. Colleton — very much, in the few last years of my life, 
from the sneer, and the scorn, and the control of others ! But I 
have been taught to hope for different treatment, and a far gen- 
tler estimate. It is ill in you to take up the speech of smaller 
spirits, and when the sufferer is one so weak, so poor, so very 
wretched as I am now ! I had not looked for such scorn from 
you !” 

Ralph was confounded. Was this caprice? He had never 
seen any proof of the presence of such an infirmity in her. And 
yet, how could he account for those strange words — that man- 
ner so full of offended pride ? What had he been saying ? How 
had she misconceived him ? He took her hand earnestly in his 
own. She would have withdrawn it; but no ! — he held it fast, 
and looked pleadingly into her face, as he replied : — 

“ Surely, Lucy, you do me wrong ! ‘ How could you think 
that I would design to give you pain ? Do you really estimate 
me by so low a standard, that my voice, when it speaks in 
praise and homage, is held to be the voice of vulgar flattery, 
and designing falsehood?” 

“ Oh, no, Ralph ! not that — anything but that !” 

“That I should sneer at you^ Lucy — feel or utter scorn — 
you, to whom I owe so much ! Have I then been usually so 
flippant of speech — a trifler — when we have spoken together 
before ? — the self-assured fopling, with fancied superiority, 
seeking to impose upon the vain spirit and the simple confi- 
dence ? Surely, I have never given you cause to think of me 
60 meanly !” 

“ No ! no ! forgive me ! I know not what I have said ! I 
meant nothing so unkind — so unjust!” 

“Lucy, your esteem is one of my most precious desires. 
To secure it, I would do much — strive earnestly — make many 
sacrifices of self. Certainly, for this object, I should be always 
truthful.” 


178 


GUY EIVEKS. 


“ You are, Ralph ! I believe you.” 

“ When I praised you, I did uot mean merely to praise. I 
sought rather to awaken you to a just appreciation of your own 
claims upon a higher order of society than that which you can 
possibly find in this frontier region. I have spoken only tlio 
simple truth of your charms and accomplishments. I have felt 
them, Lucy; and paint them only as they are. Your beauties 
of mind and person — ” 

“ Oh, do not, I implore you !” 

“ Yes, I must, Lucy! though of these beauties I should not 
have spoken — should not now speak — were it not that I feel 
sure that your superior understanding would enable you to 
listen calmly to a voice, speaking from my heart to yours, and 
speaking nothing but a truth which it honestly believes I And 
it is your own despondency, and humility of soul, that prompts 
me thus to speak in your praise. There is no good reason, 
Lucy, why you should not be happy — why fond hearts should 
not be rejoiced to win your sympathies — why fond eyes should 
not look gladly and gratefully for the smiles of yours 1 You car- 
ry treasures into society, Lucy, which society will everywhere 
value as beyond price !” 

“Ah! why will you, sir — why, Ralph? — ” 

“ You must not sacrifice yourself, Lucy. You must not de- 
fraud society of its rights. In a more refined circle, whose 
chances of happiness will be more likely to command than 
yours? You must go with me and Edith — go to Carolina. 
There you will find the proper homage. You will see the gen- 
erous and the noble j — they will seek you — honorable gentle- 
men, proud of your favor, happy in your smiles — glad to offer 
you homes and hearts, such as shall be not unworthy of your 
own.” 

The girl heard him, but with no strengthening of self-confi- 
dence. The thought which occurred to her, which spoke of her 
claims, was that he had not found them so coercive. But, of 
course, she did not breathe the sentiment. She only sighed, 
and shook her head mournfully ; replying, after a brief pause : — 

“ I must not hear you, Ralph. I thank you, I thank Miss 
Colleton, for the kindness of this invitation, but I dare not ac- 
cept it. I can not go with you to Carolina. My lot is here^ 


QUIET PASSAGES AND NEW RELATIONS. 479 

with my aunt, or where she goes. I must not desert her. She 
is now even more destitute than myself.” 

“ Impossible ! Why, Lucy, your aunt tells me that she means 
to continue in this establishment. How can you reconcile it to 
yourself to remaiix here, with the peril of encountering the as- 
sociations, such as we have already known them, which seem 
naturally to belong to such a border region.” 

You forget, Halph, that it was here I met with you,” was 
the sudden reply, with a faint smile upon her lips. 

“Yes; and I was driven here by a fate, against my will — 
that we should meet, Lucy. But though we are both here, now, 
the region is unseemly to both, and neither need remain an hour 
longer than it is agreeable. Why should you remain out of your 
sphere, and exposed to every sort of humiliating peril.” 

“ You forget — my aunt.” 

“Ay, but what security is there that she will not give you 
another uncle 

“ Oh, fie, Ralph !” 

“Ay, she is too feeble of will, too weak, to be independent. 
She will marry again, Lucy, and is not the woman to choose 
wisely. Besides, she is not your natural aunt. She is so by 
marriage only. The tie between you is one which gives her no 
proper claim upon you.” 

“ She hae. been kind to me, Ralph.” 

“ Yet she would have seen you sacrificed to this outlaw !” 

Lucy shuddered. He continued : — 

“ Her kindness, lacking strength and courage, would leave 
you still to be sacrificed, whenever a will, stronger than her 
own, should choose to assert a power over you. She can do 
nothing for you — not even for your security. You must not 
remain here, Lucy.” 

“ Frankly, then, Ralph, I do not mean to do so long ; nor 
does my aunt mean it. She is feeble, as you say ; and, know- 
ing it, I shall succeed in persuading her to sell out here, and 
we shall then remove to a more civilized region, to a better 
society, where, indeed, if you knew it, you wcTild find nothing 
to regret, and see no reason to apprehend either for my securi- 
ties or tastes. We shall seek refuge among my kindred 
^^piong the relatives of mother— and I shall there be 


480 


GUY RIVERS. 


as perfectly at home, and quite as happy, as 1 can be any- 
where.” 

“ And where is it that you go, Lucy *?” 

• Forgive me, Ralph, hut I must not tell you.” 

“Not tell me!” 

“Better that I should not — better, far better! The dutiefa 
for which the high Providence brought us together have been, 
I think, fairly accomplished. I have done my part, and you, 
Mr. Colleton — Ralph, I mean — you have done yours. There 
is nothing more that we may not do apart. Here, then, let our 
conference end. It is enough that you have complied with the 
dying wish of my uncle — that I have not, is not your fault.” 

“ Not my fault, Lucy, but truly my misfortune. But I give 
not up my hope so easily. I still trust that you will think bet- 
ter of your determination, and conclude to go with us. We 
have a sweet home, and should not be altogether so happy in 
it, with the thought of your absence for ever in our minds.” 

“ What ! — not happy, and she with you !” 

“Happy! — yes! — but far happier with both of you. You, 
my sister, and — ” 

“ Say no more — ” 

“No more now,. but I shall try other lips, perhaps more per- 
suasive than mine. Edith shall come — ” 

His words were suddenly arrested by the energetic speech 
and action of his companion. She put her hand on his wrist — 
grasped it — and exclaimed — 

“ Let her not come ! Bring her not here, Ralph Colleton ! 
I have no wish to see her — will not see her, I tell you — would 
not have her see me for the world !” 

Ralph was confounded, and recoiled from the fierce, spas- 
modic energy of the speaker, so very much at variance with 
the subdued tone of her previous conversation. He little knew 
what an effort was required hitherto, on her part, to maintain 
that tone, and t 9 speak coolly and quietly of those fortunes, 
every thought of which brought only disappointmont and agony 
to her bosom. 

She dropped his hand as she concluded, and with eyes still 
fixed upon him, she half turned round, as if about to leave the 
room. But the crisis of her emotions was reached. She sick 


481 


quiet passages and new relations. 

ened with the effort. Her limbs grew too weak to sustain her j 
a sudden faintness overspread all her faculties — her eyes closed 
— she gasped hysterically, and tottering forward, she sank un- 
conscious into the anns of Ralph, which were barely stretched 
out in time to save her from falling to the floor. He bore her 
to the sofa, and laid her down silently upon it. 

He was struck suddenly with the truth to which he had hith- 
erto shown himself so blind. He would have been the blindest 
and most obtuse of mortals, did he now fail to see. That last 
speech, that last look, and the fearful paroxysm which followed 
it, had revealed the poor girl’s secret. Its discovery over- 
whelmed him, at once with the consciousness of his previous 
and prolonged dullness — which was surely mortifying — as 
with the more painful consciousness of the evil which he had 
unwittingly occasioned. But the present situation of the gentle 
victim called for immediate attention ; and, hastily darting out 
to another apartment, he summoned Mrs. Munro to the succor 
of her niece. 

“ What is the matter, Mr. Colleton ?” 

“ She faints,” answered the other hoarsely, as he hurried the 
widow into the chamber. 

“ Bless my soul, what can be the matter !” 

The wondering of the hostess was not permitted to consume 
her time and make her neglectful ; Colleton did not suffer this. 
He hurried her with the restoratives, and saw them applied, 
and waiting only till he could be sure of the recovery of the 
patient, he hurried away, without giving the aunt any oppor- 
tunity to examine him in respect to the cause of Lucy’s illness. 

Greatly excited, and painfully so, Ralph hastened at once to 
the lodgings of Edith. She was luckily alone. She cried out, 
as he entered — 

“Well, Ralph, she will come with us?” 

“No!” 

“ No ! — and why not, Ralph ! I must go and see her.” 

“ She will not see you, Edith.” 

“ Not see me I” 

'‘No I She positively declines to see you.’ 

“ Why, Ralph, that is very strange. What can it mean?‘ 

21 


482 


GtJY RIVERS. 


“ Mean, Editli, it means that I am very unfortunate. I hav4 
been a blind fool if nothing worse.” 

“ Why, what can you mean, Ralph. What is this new mys- 
tery ? This is, surely, a place of more marvels than — ” 

“ Hear me, Edith, my love, and tell me what you thuik. I 
am bewildered, mortified, confounded.” 

He proceeded, as well as he could, to relate what had oc- 
curred ; to give, not only the words, but to describe the man- 
'ler of Lucy — so much of it had been expressed in this way — 
and he concluded, with a warm suffusion of his cheeks, to men- 
tion the self-flattering conclusion to which he had come : — 

“Now, Edith, you who know me so well, tell me, can you 
think it possible that I have done, or said anything which has 
been calculated to make her suppose that I loved her — that I 
sought her. In short, do you think me capable of playing the 
scoundrel. I feel that I have been blind — something of a fool, 
Edith — hut, on my soul, I can not recall a moment in which I 
have said or shown anything to this poor girl which was unbe- 
coming in the gentleman.” 

The maiden looked at him curiously. At first there was 
something like an arch smile playing upon her lips and in her 
light lively eyes. But when she noted how real was his 
anxiety — how deeply and keenly he felt his OAvn doubt — 
she felt that the little jest which occun’ed to her fancy, would 
be unseemly and unreasonable. So, she answered promptly, 
but quietly — 

“ Pshaw, Ralph, how can you afflict yourself with any such 
notions] I have no doubt of the perfect propriety of your 
conduct ; and I will venture to say that Miss Munro entertains 
no reproaches.” 

“ Yet, feeling so grateful to her, Edith — and when I first 
came here, lonely, wounded and suffering every Avay — feeling 
so much the want of sympathy — I may have shown to her — 
almost the only being with whom I could sympathize — I may 
have shown to her a greater degree of interest, than — ’ 

“ My dear Ralph, you are certainly one of the most modest 
young men of the present generation ; that is, if you do not 
deceive yourself now, in your conjectures touching the state of 
Miss Munro’s affections. After all, it may be a sudden illness 


OUIET PASSAGES AND NEW RELATIONS. 48^ 

from exhaustion, excitement, terror-- wliicli you have under^ 
taken to account for by supposing her desperately in love.” 

“ Heaven grant it be so,” answered Ralph. 

“Well, whether so or not, do not distress yourself. I will 
answer for it, you are not to blame. And here, let me whisper 
a little secret in your. ears. However forbidden by all the 
wise, solemn, staid regulations of good society, there are young 
women— very few I grant you — who will, without the slight- 
est call for it, or provocation, suffer their little hearts to go out 
of their own keeping- who will — I am ashamed to confess it 
—positively suffer themselves to love even where the case is 
hopeless — where no encouragement is given to them — where 
they can have no rights at all, and where they can only sigh, 
and mourn, and envy the better fortunes of other people. I 
have no doubt that Miss Munro is one of these very unsophis- 
ticated persons ; and that you have been all the while, and only 
the innocent cause of all her troubles. I acquit you of Irse 
majeste, Ralph, so put off your doleful faces.” 

“ Don’t speak so carelessly of the matter, Edith. We owe 
this dear girl a heavy debt — I do, at least.” 

“ And we shall try and pay it, Ralph. But you must leave 
this matter to me. I will go and see Lucy.” 

“ But she refuses to see you.” 

“ I will not be refused. I will see her, and she shall see me, 
and I trust we shall succeed in taking her home with us. It 
may be, Ralph, that she will feel shy in thinking of you as a 
brother, but I will do my best to make her adopt me as a sister.” 

“My own, my generous Edith — it was ever thus — you are 
always the noble and the true. Go, then — you are right — you 
must go alone. Relieve me from this sorrow if you can. I 
need not say to you, persuade her, if in your power ; for much 
I doubt whether her prospects are altogether so good as she 
has represented them to me. So fine a creature must not bo 
sa<?.rificed.” 

Edith lost no time in proceeding to the ‘dwelling and into the 
chamber o^ Lucy Munro. She regarded none of the objections 
of the old lady, the aunt of her she sought, who would have 
denied her entrance. Edith’s was a spirit of the firmest mould 
—-tenacious of its purpose, and influenced oy no consideration 


484 


GUY RIVERS. 

which would have jostled with the intended good. She ap 
proached the sufferer, who lay half-conscious only on her couch 
Lucy could not be mistaken as to the person of her visiter. 
Tlie noble features, full of generous beauty and a warm spirit, 
breathing affection for all human things, and doubly expanded' 
with benevolent sweetness when gazing down upon one need- 
ing and deserving of so much — all told her that the beloved 
and the betrothed of Ralph Colleton was before her. She 
looked but once ; then, sighing deeply, turned her head upon 
the pillow, so as to shut out a presence so dangerously beautiful. 

But Edith was a woman whose thoughts — having deeply ex- 
amined the minute structure of her own heart — could now 
readily understand that of another which so nearly resembled 
it. She perceived the true course for adoption j and, bending 
gently over the despairing girl, she possessed herself of one of 
her hands, while her lips, with the most playful sweetness of 
manner, were fastened upon those of the sufferer. The speech 
of such an action was instantaneous in its effect. 

“ Oh, why are you here — why did you come was the mur- 
mured inquiry of the drooping maiden. 

“ To know you — to love you — to win you to love me, Lucy. 
I would be worthy of your love, dear girl, if only to be grate- 
ful. I know how worthy you are of all of mine. I have 
heard all.” 

“No ! no ! not all — not all, or you never would be here.” 

“It is for that very reason that I am here. I have discov- 
ered more than Ralph Colleton could report, and love you all 
the better, Lucy, as you can feel with me how worthy he is of 
the love of both.” 

A deep sigh escaped the lips of the lovely sufferer, and her 
hice was again averted from the glance of her visiter. The 
latter passed her arm under her neck, and, sitting on the bed- 
side, drew Lucy’s head to her bosom. 

“Yes, Lucy, the woman has keener instincts than the man, 
and feels even where- he fails to see. Do not wonder, there- 
fore, that Edith Colleton knows more than her lover ever 
dreamed of. And now I come to entreat you to love me for 
sake. You shall be my sister, Lucy, and in time you may come 
to love me for my own sake. My pleasant labor, Lucy, shall 


QUIET PASSAGES AND NEW RELATIONS. 


485 


be to win your love — to force you to love me, whether you will 
or no. W e can not alter things ; can not change the courses of 
the stars ; can not force nature to our purposes in the stubborn 
heart or the wilful fancy : and the wise method is to accommo- 
date ourselves to the inevitable, and see if we can not extract 
an odor from the breeze no matter whence it blows. Now, I 
am an only child, Lucy. I have neither brother nor sister, and 
want a friend, and need a companion, one whom I can love — ’* 

“You will have — have — your husband.” 

“ Yes, Lucy, and as a husband ! But I am not content. I 
must have you^ also, ‘Lucy.” 

“ Oh, no, no ! I can not — can not !” 

“ You must ! I can not and will not go without you. Hear 
me. You have mortified poor Ealph very much. He swore to 
your uncle, in his dying moments — an awful moment — that 
you should be his sister — that you should enjoy his protection. 
His own desires — mine — my father’s — all concur to make us 
resolute that Ealph shall keep his oath ! And he must ! and 
you must consent to an arrangement upon which we have set 
our hearts.” 

“ To live with him — to see him daily !” murmured the suffer- 
ing girl. 

“Ay, Lucy,” answered the other boldly; “and to love him, 
and honor him, and sympathize with him in his needs, as a true, 
devoted woman and sister, so long as he shall prove worthy in 
your eyes and mine. I know that I am asking of you, Lucy, 
what I would ask of no ordinary woman. If I held you to be 
an ordinary woman, to whom we simply owe a debt of grati- 
tude, I should never dream to offer such an argument. But it 
is because you do love him, that I wish you to abide with us ; 
your love hallowed by its own fires, and purifying itself, as it 
I will, by the exercise of your mind upon it.” 

The cheeks of Lucy flushed suddenly, but she said nothing. 
Edith stooped to her, and kissed her fondly. Then she spoke 
again, so tenderly, so gently, with such judicious pleading — 
appealing equally to the exquisite instincts of the loving wo- 
I man and the thoughtful .mind — that the suffering girl was 
touched. 

But she struggled ong. She was unwilling to be won. She 


48o 


GUY RIVERS. 


was vexed that she was so weak : she was so weary of all strug 
gle, and she needed sympathy and love so much ! 

How many various influences had Edith to combat ! how 
many were there working in her favor ! What a conflict was 
it all in the poor heart of the sorrowful and loving Lucy ! 

Edith was a skilful physician for the heart — skilful beyond 
her years. 

Love was the great want of Lucy. 

Edith soon persuaded her that she knew how to supply it. 
She was so solicitous, so watchful, so tender, so — 

Suddenly the eyes of Lucy gushed with a volume of tears, 
and she buried her face in Edith’s bosom ; and she wept — how 
passionately ! — the sobbings of an infant succeeding to the 
more wild emotions of the soul, and placing her, like a docile 
and exhausted child, at the entire control of her companion, 
even as if she had been a mother. 

“ Do with me as you will, Edith, my sister.” 

There was really no argument, there were no reasons given, 
which could persuade any mind, having first resolved on the one 
purpose, to abandon it for the other. How many reasons had 
Lucy for being firm in the first resolution she had made ! 

But the ends of wisdom do not depend upon the reasons which 
enforce conviction. Nay, conviction itself, where the he«i*t is 
concerned, is rarely to be moved by any efforts, however noble, 
of the simply reasoning faculty. 

Shall we call them arts — the processes by which Edith 
Colleton had persuaded Lucy Munro to her purposes % No ! it 
was the sweet nature, the gentle virtues, the loving tenderness, 
the warm sympathies, the delicate tact — these, superior to art 
and reason, were made evident to the suffering girl, in the long 
interview in which they were together ; and her soul melted 
under their influence, and the stubborn will was subdued, and 
again she murmured lovingly — 

“ Po with me as ^oa will, my sister ” 


LAST SCENE OP ALL. 


487 


CHAPTER XLII. 

“ LAST SCENE OF ALL.” 

There was m little stir in the village of Ohestatee on the 
morning following that on which the scene narrated in the pre- 
ceding chapter had taken place. It so happened that several 
of the worthy villagers had determined to remove upon that 
day ; and Colonel Colleton and his family, consisting of his 
daughter, Lucy Munro, and his future son-in-law, having now 
no further reason for delay, had also chosen it as their day of 
departure for Carolina. Nor did the already named constitute 
the sum total of the cavalcade setting out for that region. Car- 
olina was about to receive an accession in the person of the sa- 
gacious pedler, who, in a previous conversation with both Colo- 
nel Colleton and Ralph, had made arrangements for future and 
large adventures in the way of trade — having determined, with 
the advice and assistance of his newly-acquired friends, to estab- 
lish one of those wonders of various combinations, called a coun- 
try store, among the good people of Sumter district. Under 
their direction, and hopeful of the Colleton patronage and influ- 
ence, Bunce never troubled himself to dream of unprofitable 
speculations ; but immediately drawing up letters for his brother 
and some other of his kinsmen engaged in the manufacture, 
in Connecticut, of one kind of notion or other, he detailed 
his new designs, and furnished liberal orders for the articles re- 
quired and deemed necessary for the wants of the free-handed 
backwoodsmen of the South. Lest our readers should lack any 
infoi-mation on the subject of these wants, we shall narrate a 
brief dialogue between the younger Colleton and our worthy 
merchant, which took place but a few hours before their de 
parture : — 

“Well, Bunce, are you ready 1 We shall be off now in a 


486 


GUY RIVERS. 


couple of hours or so, and you must not keep us waiting. Pack 
up at once, man, and make yourself ready.” 

“ I guess you’re in a little bit of a small hurry, Master Colle- 
ton, ’cause, you see, you’ve some reason to he so. You hain’t 
had so easy a spell on it, no how, and I don’t wonder as how 
you’re no little airnest to get off. Well, you won’t have to wait 
for me. I’ve jest got through mending my little go-cart — 
though, to be sure, it don’t look, no how, like the thing it was. 
The rigilators made awful sad work of the box and body, and, 
what with patching and piecing, there’s no two eends on it alike.” 

“ Well, you’re ready, however, and we shall have no difficulty 
at the last hour I” 

“ None to speak on. Jared Bunce aint the chap for burning 
daylight ; and whenever you’re ready to say, ‘ Go,’ he’s gone. 
But, I say. Master Ralph, there’s one little matter I’d like to 
look at.” 

“ What’s that ? Be quick, now, for I’ve much to see to.” 

“ Only a minute. Here, you see, is a letter I’ve jest writ to 
my brother, Ichabod Bunce, down to Meriden. He’s a ’cute 
chap, and quite a Yankee, now, I tell you ; and as I knows all 
his ways, I’ve got to keep a sharp look-out to see he don’t come 
over me. Ah, Master Ralph, it’s a hard thing to say one’s own 
flesh and blood aint the thing, but the truth’s the truth to be 
sure, and, though it does hurt in the telling, that’s no reason it 
shouldn’t be told.” 

“ Certainly not !” 

“Well, as I say, Ichabod Bunce is as close and ’cute in his 
dealings as any man in all Connecticut, and that’s no little to 
say, I’m sartin. He’s got the trick, if anybody’s got it, of 
knowing how to make your pocket his, and squaring all things 
coming in by double multiplication. If he puts a shilling down, 
it’s sure to stick to another; and if he picks one up, it never 
comes by itself — there’s always sure to be two on ’em.” 

“ A choice faculty for a tradesman.” 

“ You’ve said it.” 

“Just the man for business, I take it.” 

“Jest so; you’re right there. Master Colleton — there’s no 
mistake about that. Well, as I tell’d you now, though he’s my 
ow» brother, I have to keep a raal sharp look out over him 


LASt SCRNE OP ALL. 


489 


all our dealings. If he says two and two makes four, I sets to 
calkilate, for when he says so, I’m sure there’s something wrong 
in the calkilation ; and tho’ to be sure I do know, when the 
thing stands by itself, that two and two does make four ; yet, 
somehow, whenever he says it, I begin to think it not altogether 
so sartain. Ah, he’s a main hand for trade, and there’s no 
knowing when he’ll come over you.” 

“ But, Bunce, without making morals a party to this question, 
as you are in copartnership with your brother, you should rather 
rejoice that he possesses so happy a faculty ; it certainly should 
not be a matter of regret with you.” 

“Why, how — you wouldn’t have me to be a mean-spirited 
fellow, who would live all for money, and not care how it comes. 
I can’t, sir — ’tain’t my way, I assure you. I do feel that I 
wasn’t bora to live nowhere except in the South; and so I 
thought when I wrote Ichabod Bunce my last letter. I told 
him every man on his own hook, now — for, you see, I couldn’t 
stand his close-fisted contrivances no longer. He wanted me to 
work round the ring like himself, but I was quite too up-and- 
down for that, and so I squared ojff from him soon as I could. 
We never did agree when we were together, you see — ’cause 
naterally, being brothers and partners, he couldn’t shave me 
as he shaved other folks, and so, ’cause he couldn’t by nature 
and partnership come ’cute over me, he was always grumbling, 
and for every yard of prints, he’d make out to send two yards 
of grunt and growls, and that was too much, you know, even 
for a pedler to stand ; so we cut loose, and now as the people 
say on the river — every man paddle his own canoe.” 

“ And you are now alone in the way of trade, and this store 
which you are about to establish is entirely on yom* own ac- 
count 

“ Guess it is ; and so, you see, I must pull with single oar up 
stream, and shan’t quarrel with no friend that helps me now and 
then to send the boat ahead.” 

“ Rely upon us, Bunce. You have done too much in my be- 
half to oermit any of our family to forget your services. We 
shall do ill that we can toward giving you a fair start in the 
stream, ai d it will not be often that you shall require a helping- 
hand in paddling your canoe.” 

\* 


490 


GtJt RIVERS. 


“ I know’d it, Master Colleton. ’Tain’t in Carolina, ncr in 
Georgy, nor Virginny, no — -nor down in Alabam, that a man 
will look long for provisions, and see none come. That’s the 
people for me. I gness I must ha’ been horn by nature in the 
South, though I did see daylight in Connecticut.” 

“No blarney, Bunce. We know you — what you are and 
what you are not! — good and bad in fair proportions. But 
what paper is that in your hand 1” 

“ Oh, that ? That’s jest what I was going now to ax you 
about. That’s my bill of particulars, you see, that I’m going 
to send on by the post, to Ichabod Bunce. He’ll trade with 
me, now we’re off partnership, and be as civil as a lawyer jest 
afore court-time. ’Cause, you see, he’ll be trying to come over 
me, and will throw as much dust in my eyes as he can. But I 
guess he don’t catch me with mouth ajar. I know his tricks, 
and he’ll find me up to them.” 

“ And what is it you require of me in this matter ?” 

“ Oh, nothing, but jest to look over this list, and tell me how 
you ’spose the things will suit your part of the country. You 
see I must try and larn how to please my customers, that is to 
be. Now, you see, here’s, in the first place — for they’re a 
great article now in the country, and turn out well in the way 
of sale — here’s — ” 

But we need not report the catalogue. Enough, that he 
proceeded to unfold (dwelling with an emphatic and precise 
description of each article in turn) the immense inventory of 
wares and merchandises with which he was about to establish 
The assortment was various enough. There were pen-knives, 
and jack-knives, and clasp-knives, and dirk-knives, horn and 
wooden combs, calicoes and clocks, and tin-ware and garden 
seeds ; everything, indeed, without regard to fitness of associa- 
tion, which it was possible to sell in the region to which he was 
going. 

Ralph heard him through his list with tolerable patience; 
but when the pedler, having given it a first reading, proposed a 
second, with passing comments on the prospects of sale jf each 
separate article, by way of recapitulation, the youth coi id stand 
it no longer. Apologizing to the tradesman, therefore in good 
set terms, he hurried away to of those prepara- 


LAST SCENE OF ALL. 


491 


tious called for by his approaching departure. Bunce, having 
no auditor, was compelled to do the same ; accordingly a few 
hours after, the entire party made its appearance in the court 
of the village-inn, where the carriages stood in waiting. 

About this time another party left the village, though in a 
difiPerent direction. It consisted of old Allen, his wife, and 
daughter Kate. In their company rode the lawyer Pippin, 
who, hopeless of elevation in his present whereabouts, was 
solicitous of a fairer field for the exhibition of his powers 
of law and logic than that which he now left had ever af- 
forded him. He made but a small item in the caravan. His 
goods and chattels required little compression for the pur- 
poses of can’iage, and a small Jersey — a light wagon in free 
use in that section, contained all his wardrobe, books, papers, 
&c. — the heirlooms of a long and carefully economized practice. 
We may not follow his fortunes after his removal to the valley 
of the Mississippi. It does not belong to the narrative ; but, 
we may surely say to those in whom his appearance may have 
provoked some interest, that subsequently he got into fine prac- 
tice — was notorious for his stump-speeches ; and a random sheet 
of the “Eepublican Star and Banner of Independence” which 
we now have before us, published in the town of “Modern 
Ilium,” under the head of the “ Triumph of Liberty and Prin- 
ciple,” records, in the most glowing language, the elevation of 
Peter Pippin, Esq., to the state legislature, by seven votes ma- 
jority over Colonel Hannibal Hopkins, the military candidate 
— Pippin 39, Hopkins 32. Such a fortunate result, if we have 
rightly estimated the character of the man, will have easily 
salved over all the hurts which, in his earlier history, his self- 
love may have suffered. 

But the hour of departure was at hand, and assisting the fail- 
Edith into the carriage, Ralph had the satisfaction of placing 
her beside the sweetly sad, the lovely, but still deeply suffering 
girl, to whom he owed so much in the preservation of his life. 
She was silent when he spoke, but sh^ looked her replies, and he 
felt that they were sufficiently expressive. The aunt had been 
easily persuaded to go with her niece^ and we fitid her seated 
accordingly along with Col.-nel Colleton in the same carriage 
With the young ladies. Ralph lode, as his humor prompted, 


492 


GUY RIVERS. 


Bometimes on horseback, arid sometimes in a light gig — a prac- 
tice adopted with little difficulty, where a sufficient number of 
servants enabled him to transfer the trust of one or the other 
conveyance to the liveried outriders. Then came the compact, 
boxy, buggy, buttoned-up vehicle of our friend the pedler — a 
thing for which the. unfertile character of our language, as yet, 
has failed to provide a fitting name — but which the backwoods- 
man of the west calls a go-cdrt; a title which the proprietor 
does not always esteem significant of its manifold virtues and 
accommodations. With a capacious stomach, it is wisely esti- 
mated for all possible purposes ; and when opened with a mys- 
terious but highly becoming solemnity, before the gaping and 
wondering woodsman, how “ awful fine” do the contents appear 
to Miss Nancy and the little whiteheads about her. How grand 
are its treasures, of tape and toys, cottons and calicoes, yarn 
and buttons, spotted silks and hose — knives and thimbles — 
scissors and needles — wooden clocks, and coffee-mills, &c. — 
not to specify a closely -packed and various assortment of tin- 
ware and japan, from the tea-kettle and coffee-pot to the drink- 
ing mug for the pet boy and the shotted rattle for the infant. 
A judicious distribution of the two latter, in the way of pres- 
ents to the young, and the worthy pedler drives a fine bargain 
with the parents in more costly commodities. 

The party was now fairly ready, but, just at the moment of 
departure, who should appear in sight but our simple friend. 
Chub Williams. He had never been a frequent visiter to the 
abodes of men, and of course all things occasioned wonder. 
He seemed fallen upon some strange planet, and was only won 
to attention by the travellers, on hearing the voice of Lucy 
Munro calling to him from the carriage window. He could not 
be made to understand the meaning of her words when she 
told him where she was going, but contented himself with say- 
ing he would come for her, as soon as they built up his house, 
and she should be his mother. It was for this purpose he had 
come to the village, from which, though surprised at all things 
he saw, he was anxious to get away. He had been promised, as 
we remember, tlie rebuilding of his cabin, by the men whc 
captured Rivers; together With stiridrj^ other. little acquisitions, 
which, as they were associated With his tlriimal wants, the mem^ 


LAST SCENE OF ALL. 


493 


ory of the urchin did net suffer to escape him. Ralph placed 
in his hands a sum of money, trifling in itself, but larger in 
amount than Chub had ever seen at any one time before ; and 
telling him it was his own, rejoined the party which had already 
driven off. The pedler still lingered, until a bend in the road 
put his company out of sight; when, driving up to the idiot, 
who stood with open mouth wondering at his own wealth, he 
opened upon him the preliminaries of trade, with a respectful 
address, duly proportioned to the increased finances of the boy. 

“ I say, now. Chub — seeing you have the raal grit, if it ain’t 
axing too much, what do you think to do with all that money ? 
I guess you’d like to lay out a little on’t in the way of trade ; 
and as I ain’t particular where I sell, why, the sooner I begin, 
I guess, the better. You ain’t in want of nothing, eh? No 
knife to cut the saplings, and pare the nails, nor nothing of no 
kind? Now I has everything from — ” 

Bunce threw up the lid of his box, and began to display his 
wares. 

“There’s a knife for you. Chub Williams — only two bits. 
With that knife you could open the stone walls of any house, 
even twice as strong as Guy Rivers’s. And there’s a handker- 
chief for your neck. Chub — Guy’ll have to wear one of rope, 
mv lad: and look at the suspenders. Chub — fit for the king; 
and—” 

Where the pedler would have stopped, short of the display and 
enumeration of all the wares in his wagon, it is not easy to say, 
but for an unexpected interruption. One of the outsiders of 
the Colleton party, galloped back at this moment, no other in- 
deed, than our former acquaintance, the blacky, Caesar, the fel- 
low whose friendship for Ralph was such that he was reluctant 
to get him the steed upon which he left his uncle’s house in 
dudgeon. Ralph had sent him back to see what detained the 
pedler, and to give him help in case of accident. 

Caesar ^t once divined the cause of the pedler’s delay, as he 
saw the box opened, and its gaudy contents displayed before 
the eyes of the wondering idiot. He was indignant. The 
negro of the South has as little reverence for the Yankee ped- 
ler as his master, and O^sar was not slow to express the indig- 
nation which he felt. 


494 


GtJt RIVEftS. 


“ Ki ! Misser Bunce, aint you shame for try for draw de 
money out ob the boy pocket, wha’ massa gee um 

“ Why, Caesar, he kaint eat the money, old fellow, and he 
kaint wear it ; and he’ll have to buy somethiixg with it, when- 
ever he wants to use it.” 

“ But gee um time, Misser Bunce — gee um time ! De mon- 
ey aint fair git warm in de young man pocket. Gee um time ! 
Le’ um look ’bout um, and see wha’ he want ; and ef you wants 
to he friendly wid um, gee um somet’ing youse’f — dat knife 
burn bright in he eye ! Gee um dat, and le’s be moving ! 
Maussa da wait ! Ef you’s a coming for trade in we country, 
you mus’ drop de little bizness — ’taint ’spectable in Car’lina.” 

The pedler was rebuked. He looked first at Osesar, then at 
Chub, and finally handed the hoy the knife. 

“ You’re right. There, Chub, there’s a knife for you. You’re 
a good little fellow, as well as you knows how to be.” 

Chub grinned, took the knife, opened both blades, and nod- 
ding his head, made off without a word. 

“ The etarnal little heathen ! Never to say so much as 
thank ye.” 

“ Nehber mind, Misser Bunce ; dat’s de ’spectable t’ing wha’ 
you do. Always ’member, ef you wants to be gempleman’s, 
dat you kaint take no money from nigger and poor buckrah. 
You kin gib um wha’ you please, hut you mustn’t ’speck dem 
to be gibbing you.” 

“ But in the way of trade, Caesar,” said the pedler, putting 
his horse in motion. 

“ Der’s a time for trade, and a time for gih, and you must do 
de genteel t’ing, and nehber consider wha’s de ’spense of it, or 
d« profit. De nigger hah he task in de cornfiel’, and he hah 
for do um ; hut ’spose maussa wants he nigger to do somet’ing 
dat aint in he task — dat’s to say in de nigger own time — wha’ 
den 1 He pays um han’some for ii. When you’s a trading, 
trade and git you pay, but when you’s a trabelling A^ith gem- 
piemans and he family, da’s no time for trade. Ef you open 
you box at dem times, you must jest put in you hand, and take 
out de t’ing wha’ you hab for gib, and say, ‘ Yer Caesar — some- 
t’ing for you, boy !’” 

“ Hem ! that’s the how, is it ?” said the pedler with a leer 


LAST SCE^TE OP ALL. 


495 


•liat was good-humoredly knowing. “ Well, old fellow, as you’ve 
given me quite a lesson how to behave myself, I guess I must 
show you that I understand how to prove that I’m thankful— 
so here, Caesar, is a cut for you from one of my best goods.” 

He accompanied the words with a smart stroke of his whip, 
a totally unexpected salutation, over the shoulders, which set 
the negro off in a canter. Bunce, however, called him back, 
liolding up a flaming handkerchief of red and orange, as a 
means of reconciliation. Caesar was soon pacified, and the two 
rode on together in a pleasant companionship, which suffered 
no interruptions on the road ; Caesar all the way continuing to 
give the pedler a proper idea of the processes through which 
he might become a respectable person in Carolina. 

There are still other parties to our story which it is required 
that we should dispose of according to the rules of the novel. 

Let us return to the dungeon of the outlaw, where we behold 
him in a situation as proper to his deserts as it is new to his 
experience. Hitherto, he has gone free of all human bonds 
and penalties, save that of exile from society, and a life of con- 
tinued insecurity. He has never prepared his mind with res- 
ignation to endure patiently such a condition. What an intel- 
lect was here allowed to go to waste — what fine talents have 
been perverted in this man. Endowments that might have done 
the country honor, have been made to minister only in its mis- 
chiefs. 

How sad a subject for contemplation ! The wreck of intel- 
lect, of genius, of humanity. Fortunate for mankind, if, under 
the decree of a saving and blessing Providence, there be no 
dark void on earth — when one bright star falls from its sphere, 
if there is another soon lighted to fill its place, and to shine 
more purely than that which has been lost. May we not be- 
lieve this — nay, we must, and exult, on behalf of humanity — 
that, in the eternal progress of change, the nature which is its 
aliment no less than its element, restores not less than its desti- 
ny removes. Yet, the knowledge that we lose not, does not 
materially lessen the pang when we behold the mighty fall — 
when we see the great mind, which, as a star, we have almost 
worshipped, shooting with headlong precipitance through the 
immepfi^ vnifl Irnna its place of eminence, and defrauding the 


496 


GUY UIVERS. 


eye of all tlie glorious presence and golden promise whicli had 
become associated with its survey. 

The intellect of Guy Hivers had been gigantic — the mistake 

— a mistake quite too common to society — consisted in an ed- 
ucation limited entirely to the mind, and entirely neglectful of 
the morale of the boy. He was taught, like thousands of others j 
and the standards set up for his moral government, for his pas- 
sions, for his emotions, were all false from the first. The ca- 
pacities of his mind were good as well as great — but they had 
been restrained, while the passions had all been brought into 
active, and at length ungovernable exercise. How was it possi- 
ble that reason, thus taught to be subordinate, could hold the 
strife long, when passion — fierce passion — the passion of the 
querulous infant, and the peevish boy, only to be bribed to its 
duty by the toy and the sugarplum — is its uncompromising an- 
tagonist % 

But let us visit him in his dungeon — the dungeon so lately 
the abode of his originally destined, but now happily safe vic- 
tim. What philosophy is there to support him in his reverse 

— what consolation of faith, or of reflection, the natural result 
of the due perfonnance of human duties ? none ! Every thought 
was self-reproachful. Every feeling was of self-rebuke and 
mortification. Every dream was a haunting one of terror, 
merged for ever in the deep midnight cry of a fateful voice 
which bade him despair. “Curse God and die !” 

In respect to his human fortunes, the voice was utterly with- 
out pity. He had summed up for himself, as calmly as possi- 
ble, all his chances of escape. There was no hope left him. 
No sunlight, human or divine, penetrated the crevices of his 
dungeon, as in the case of Ralph Colleton, cheering him with 
promise, and lifting his soul with faith and resignation. Strong 
and self-relying as was his mind by nature, he yet lacked all 
that strength of soul which had sustained Ralph even when 
there seemed no possible escape from the danger which threat- 
ened his life. But Guy Rivers was not capable of receiving 
light or warmth from the simple aspects of nature. His soul, 
indurated by crime, was as insusceptible to the soothing influence 
of such aspects, as the cold rocky cavern where he had harbor- 
ed, was impenetrable to the noonday blaze. The sun-glance 


LAST SCENE OF ALL. 


497 


ttrougL the barred lattice, suddenly stealing, like a friendly 
messenger, with a sweet and mellow smile upon his lips, was 
hailed as an angelic visiter, by the enthusiastic nature of the 
one, without guile in his own heart. Rivers would have re- 
garded such a visiter as an intruder ; the smile in his eyes 
would have been a sneer, and he would have turned away from 
it in disgust. The mind of the strong man is the medium through 
which the eyes see, and from which life takes all its color. The 
heart is the prismatic conductor, through which the affections 
show; aniT that which is seared, or steeled, or ossified — per- 
verted utterly from its original make — can exhibit no rainbows 
— no arches of a sweet promise, linking the gloomy earth with 
the bright and the beautiful and the eternal heavens. 

The mind of Guy Rivers had been one of the strongest make 

— one of large and leading tendencies. He could not have been 
one of the mere ciphers of society. He must be something, or 
he must perish. His spirit would have fed upon his heart other- 
wise, and, wanting a field and due employment, his frame must 
have worn away in the morbid repinings of its governing prin- 
ciples. Unhappily, he had not been permitted a choice. The 
education of his youth had given a fatal direction to his man- 
liood ; and we find him, accordingly, not satisfied with his pur- 
suit, yet resolutely inflexible and undeviating in the pursuit of 
error. Such are the contradictions of the strong mind, to which, 
wondering as we gaze, with unreasonable and unthinking aston- 
ishment, we daily see it subject. Our philosophers are content 
with declaiming upon effects — they will not permit themselve« 
or others to trace them up to their causes. To heal the wound, 
the physician may probe and find out its depth and extent ; 
the same privilege is not often conceded to the physician of the 
mind or of the morals, else numberless diseases, now seemingly 
incurable, had been long since brought within the healing scope 
of philosophical analysis. The popular cant would have us for- 
bear even to look at the history of the criminal. Hang the wretch, 
say they, but say nothing about him. Why trace his progress ? 

— what good can come out of the knowledge of those influences 
and tendencies, which have made him a criminal ? Let them 
answer the question for themselves ! 

The Outlaw beheld the departing eavaicade of the Oolletotii: 


498 


GUY RIVERS. 


from ilie grated window. He saw the last of all those hi whose 
fortunes he might be supposed to have an interest. He turned 
from the sight with a bitter pang at his heart, and, to his sur- 
prise, discovered that he was not alone in the solitude of his 
prison. One ministering spirit sat beside him upon the long 
bencli, the only article of furniture afforded to his dungeon. 

The reader has not forgotten the young woman to whose re- 
lief, from fire, Ralph Colleton so opportunely came while ma- 
king his escape from his pursuers. We remember the resigna- 
tion — the yielding weakness of her broken spirit to the will of 
her destroyer. We have seen her left desolate by the death of 
her only relative, and only not utterly discarded by him, to whose 
fatal influence over her heart, at an earlier period, we may as- 
cribe all her desolation. She then yielded without a struggle 
to his will, and, having prepared her a new abiding-place, he 
had not seen her after, until, unannounced and utterly unlooked- 
for, certainly uninvited, she appeared before him in the cell of 
his dungeon. 

Certainly, none are utterly forgotten ! There are some who 
remember — some who feel with the sufferer, however lowly in 
his suffering — some who can not forget. No one perishes with- 
out a tearful memory becoming active when informed of his fate ; 
and, though the world scorns and despises, some one heart keeps 
a warm sympathy, that gives a sigh over the ruin of a soul, and 
perhaps plants a flower upon its grave. 

Rivers had not surely looked to see, in his dungeon, the for- 
saken and the defrauded girl, for whom he had shown so little 
love. He knew not, at first, how to receive her. What offices 
could she do for him — what influence exercise — how lighten 
the burden of his doom — how release him from his chains? 
Nothing of this could she perform — and what did she there? 
For sympathy, at such a moment, he cared little — for such 
sympathy, at least, as he could command. His pride and am- 
bition, heretofore, had led him to despise and undervalue the 
easy of attainment. He was always grasping after the impos- 
sible. The fame which he had lost for ever, grew doubly at- 
tractive to his mind's eye from the knowledge of this fact. The 
society^ which had expelled him from its circle and its privileges, 
Was kii tldeh ih his ifiiagiimtion^ simply on that aeccunt. The 


LAST SCENE OF ALL. 


499 


love of Edith Colleton grew more desirable from her scorn ; — r 
and the defeat of hopes so daring, made his fierce spirit writhe 
within him, in all the pangs of disappointment, only neutralized 
by his hope of revenge. And that hope was now gone ; the 
dungeon and the doom were all that met his eyes ; — and what 
had she, his victim, to do in his prison-cell, and with his prison 
feelings — she whom Providence, even in her own despite, was 
now about to avenge ? No wonder he turned away from her in 
the bitterness of the thought which her appearance must neces- 
sarily have inspired. 

“ Turn not away ! — speak to me, Guy — speak to me, if you 
have pity in your soul ! You shall not drive me from you — 
you shall not dismiss me now. I should have obeyed you at 
another time, though you had sent me to my death — but I can 
not obey you now. I am strong now, strong — very strong since 
I can say so much. I am come to be with you to the last, and, 
if it be possible, to die with you ; and you shall not refuse me. 
You shall not — oh, you will not — you can not — ” 

And, as she spoke, she clung to him as one pleading herself 
for life to the unrelenting executioner. He replied, in a sar- 
casm, true to his general course of life. 

“ Yes, Ellen ! your revenge for your wrongs would not be 
well complete, unless your own eyes witnessed it; and you in- 
sist upon the privilege as if you duly estimated the luxury. 
\Yelli — you may stay. It needed but this, if anything had 
been needed, to show me my own impotence. 

“ Cruel to the last, Guy— cruel to the last ! Surely the few 
hours between this and that of death, are too precious to be em- 
ployed in bitterness. Were not prayer better— if you will not 
pray, Guy, let me. My prayer shall be for you ; and, in the 
forgiveness which my heart shall truly send to my lips foi tbe 
wrongs you have done to me and mine, I shall not altogether 
despair, so that you join with me, of winning a forgiveness far 
more important and precious! Guy, will you join me in 
prayer f ’ 

“My knees are stiff, Ellen. I have not been taught to 
kneel.** 

“ But it is not too late to learn. Bend, bow with me, Guy-^ 
you etUi’ lived the J»oor EllcU) bow with tef now. Jt 1^ 


600 


GUY RIVEllS. 


Ler prayer j and, oh, think, how weak is the vanity of this pride 
in a situation like yours. How idle the stern and stubborn spirit, 
when men can place you in bonds — when men can take away 
life and name— whe\ men can hoot and hiss and defile your 
fettered and enfeeblet person ! It was for a season and a trial 
like this, Guy, that humility was given us. It was in order to 
such an example that the Savior died for us.” 

“ He died not for me. I have gained nothing by his death. 
Men are as bad as ever, and wrong — the wrong which deprived 
me of my right in society — has been as active and prevailing a 
principle of human action as before he died. It is in his name 
now that they do the wrong, and in his name, since his death, 
they have contrived to find a sanction for all manner of crime. 
Speak no more of this, Ellen ; you know nothing about it. It 
is all folly.” 

“ To you, Guy, it may be. To the wise all things are fool- 
ish. But to the humble heart there is a truth, even in what are 
thought follies, which brings us the best of teachings. That is 
no folly which keeps down, in the even posture of humility, the 
spirit which circumstances would only bind and crush in every 
effort to rise. That is no folly which pr^ares us for reverses, 
and fortifies us against change and vicissitude. That is no fol- 
ly which takes away the sting from affliction — which has kept 
me, Guy, as once before you said, from driving a knife into your 
heart, while it lay beating against the one to which yours had 
brought all manner of affliction. Oh, believe me, the faith and 
the feeling and the hope, not less than the fear, which has made 
me what I am now — which has taught me to rely only on the 
one — which has made me independent of all things and all 
loves — ay, even of yours, when I refer to it — is no idle folly. 
It is the only medicine by which the soul may live. It is that 
which I bring to you now. Hear me, then — Guy, hear the 
prayer of the poor Ellen, who surely has some right to be heard 
by you. Kneel for me, and with me, on this dungeon floor, and 
pray — only pray.” 

“And what should I pray for, and what should I say — and 
whom should I curse ?” 

“ Oh, ctits(i"none ! — say anything you please, so that it have 
the fotin of a prayer. Say, though but a single sentence, but 
h ^ t A k figW* - 


Last scene op all. 


501 


“ Say what 

“ Say — ‘ the Lord’s will be done,’ if nothing more ; but say 
it in the true feeling — the feeling of humble reliance upon God.” 

“ And wherefore say this ? His will must be done, and will be 
done, whether 1 say it or not. This is all idle — very idle — 
and to my mind excessively ridiculous, Ellen.” 

” Not so, Guy, as your own sense will inform you. True, his 
will must be done ; but there is a vast difference between de- 
siring that it be done, and in endeavoring to resist its doing. 
It is one thing to pray that his will have its way without stop, 
but quite another to have a vain wish in one’s heart to arrest its 
progress. But I am a poor scholar, and have no words to prove 
this to your mind, if you are not willing to think upon the sub- 
ject. If the danger is not great enough in your thought — if 
the happiness of that hope of immortality be not sufficiently im- 
pressive to you — how can I make it seem different 1 The 
great misfortune of the learned and the wise is, that they will 
not regard the necessity. If they did — if they could be less 
self-confident — how much more readily would all these lights 
from God shine out to them, than to us who want the far sense 
so quickly to perceive and to trace them out in the thick dark- 
ness. But it is my prayer, Guy, that you kneel with me in 
prayer; that you implore the feeling of preparedness for all 
chances which can only come from Heaven. Do this for me, 
Guy — Guy, my beloved — the destroyer of my youth, of all 
my hope, and of all of mine, making me the poor destitute and 
outcast that you find me now — do this one, one small kindness 
for the poor Ellen you have so much wronged, and she forgives 
you all. I have no other prayer than this — I have no other 
wish in life.” 

As she spoke, she threw herself before him, and clasped his 
knees firmly with her hands. He lifted her gently from the 
floor, and for a few moments maintained her in silence in his 
arms. At length, releasing her from his grasp, and placing her 
upon the bench, on which, until that moment, he had continued 
to sit, he replied ; — 

“ The prayer is small— very small, Ellen— which you make, 
and I know no good reason why I should not grant it. I have 
been to you all that you describe me You have called mQ 


602 


GUY RiYERS. 

truly your destroyer, and the forgiveness you promise in return 
for this prayer is desirable even to one so callous as myself. I 
will do as you require.” 

“ Oh, will you ? then I shall be so happy ! — ” was her ex- 
clamation of rejoicing. He replied gravely — 

“We shall see. I will, Ellen, do as you require, but you 
must turn away your eyes — go to the window and look out. 
I would not be seen in such a position, nor while uttering such 
a prayer.” 

“ Oh, be not ashamed, Guy Rivers. Give over that false senti- 
ment of pride which is now a weakness. Be the man, the — ” 

“ Be content, Ellen, with my terms. Either as I please, or 
not at all. Go to the window.” 

She did as he directed, and a few moments had elapsed only 
when he called her to him. He had resumed his seat upon the 
bench, and his features were singularly composed and quiet. 

“ I have done something more than you required, Ellen, for 
which you will also have to forgive me. Give me your hand, 
now.” 

She did so, and he placed it upon his bosom, which was now 
streaming with his blood ! He had taken the momentary opportu- 
nity afforded him by her absence at the window to stab himself 
to the heart with a penknife which he h^d contrived to conceal 
upon his person. Horror-struck, the affrighted woman would 
have called out fOr assistance, but, seizing her by the wrist, he 
sternly stayed her speech and action. 

“Not for your life, Ellen — not for your life ! It is all use- 
less. I first carefully felt for the beatings of my heart, and then 
ctruck where they were strongest. The stream flows now which 
will soon cease to flow, and but one thing can stop it.” 

“ Oh, what is that, Guy ? — let me — ” 

“Death — which is at hand! Now, Ellen, do you forgive 
me ? I ask no forgiveness from others.” 

“ From my heart I do, believe me.” 

“ It is well. I am weak. Let me place my head upon your 
bosom. It is some time, Ellen, since it has been there. How 
wildly does it Struggle I Pray, Ellen, that it beat not long. It 
has a sad office 1 Now — lips — give me your lips, Ellen. Yow 
have forgiven me -all — everything!” 


StJENtl 6 p aLL. 


m 


“All, all !” 

“It grows dark — but I care not. Yet, throw open the win- 
dow— I will not rest — I will pursue ! He shall not escape me ! 
— Edith — Edith!” He was silent, and sunk away from her 
embrace upon the floor. In the last moment his mind had wan- 
dered to the scene in which, but an hour before, he had wit- 
nessed the departure of Edith with his rival, Colleton. 

The jailer, alarmed by the first fearful cry of Ellen succeed- 
ing this event, rushed with his assistants into the cell, but too 
late. The spirit had departed ; and they found but the now 
silent mourner, with folded arms, and a countenance that had 
in it volumes cf unutterable wo, bending over the inanimate 
form of one wh )se life and misnamed love had been the bane 
of hers. 




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Each number is issued in neat 12mo form, and the type will bo found larger, and the 
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P. O. Box 1992. 14: and 16 Vesey St., New Yorlt. 


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325 Elbow Room 20 

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560 The Adventurers 10 

667 The Trail Hunter ; . . .10 

573 Pearl of the Andes 10 

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340 An Interesting Case 20 

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99 The Admiral’s Ward 20 

209 The Executor " 2) 

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501 At Bay 10 

740 Beaton’s Bargain 20 

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419 Fair y Tales 20 

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SO Vice Versa; or. A Lesson to Fathers. .20 

394 Tne Giant’s Robe 20 

453 Black Poodle, and Other Tales 20 

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455 Bcaris of the Faith 15 

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518 Married Life 15 

538 3'he Ways of Providence 15 

545 Home Scenes .15 

551 Stories for Parents 15 

563 Seed-Time and Harvest 15 

508 Words for the Wise 15 

674 Stories for Young Housekeepers. . , .15 

579 Lessons in Life 15 

682 Off-Hand Sketches .15 

685 Tried and Tempted * . 15 

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756 Conspiracy 25 

BY SIR SAMUEL BAKER 

206 Cast up the Sea 20 

227 Rifle and Hound in Ceylon 20 

233 Eight Years’ Wandering in Ceylon . . 20 

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381 A Fair Device 20 

405 Life of J. G. Blaine 20 

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215 The Red Eric 20 

226 The Fire Brigade 20 

2^59 Erling the Bold 20 

241 Deep Down 20 

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4G0 Galaski 20 

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712 Woman 30 

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748 Our Roman Palace 20 

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470 Vic 15 

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77 Pillone 15 

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366 The Sergeant's Legacy 20 

EY EESANT AND RICE 

103 Let Nothing You Dismay 10 

118 They Were Married 10 

257 All in a Garden Fair 20 

268 When the Ship Comes Home 10 

384 Dorothy Forster 20 

699 Self or Bearer . . . 10 

BY BJORNSTJERNE BJORNSON 

3 The Happy Buy 10 

4 Arne 10 

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40 An Adventure in Thule, etc, 10 


48 A Princess of Thule, m h u 


i 


tOTELLV, LT-REAET. 


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36 Shandon Bells 20 

03 Macleod of Dare 20 

136 Yolande 20 

142 Strange Adventures of a Phaeton. . . 20 

146 White Wings 20 

153 Sunrise, 2 Parts, each 15 

178 Madtiap Violet 20 

180 Kilmeny 20 

182 That Beautiful Wretch 20 

184 Green Pastures, etc 20 

188 In Silk Attire 20 

S13 The Three Feathers 20 

2in Lady Silverdale’s Sweetheart 10 

217 The Four MacNicols 10 

218 Mr. Pisistratus Brown, M.P 10 

225 Oliver Goldsmith 10 

282 Monarch of Mincing Laue 20 

4.56 Judith Shakespeare 20 

684 Wis(> W omen of I u verness 10 

678 White Heather 20 

BY LILLIE D. BLAKE 

105 Woman’s Place To-day 20 

597 Fettered for Life 25 

BY MISS M. E. BRADDOW 

88 The Golden Calf 20 

104 Lady Audley’s Secret 20 

214 Phantom Fortune 20 

266 Under the Red Flag 10 

444 An Ishmaelite ’ 20 

555 Aurora Floyd 20 

688 To the Bitter End 20 

698 The Mistletoe Bough 20 

766 Vixen 20 

BY ANNIE BRADSHAY7 

716 A Crimson Stain 20 

BY CHARLOTTE BREMER 

448 Life of Fredrika Bremer 20 

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/74 J aue Eyre 20 

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239 Belinda 20 

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BROWNING. 

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479 Poems 35 

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552 Selections from Poetical Works 20 

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102 Tritons, 2 Parts, each 15 

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Parts, each g5 

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508 Sartor Resartus 20 

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522 Goethe, and Miscellaneous Essays. . . 10 

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528 Voltaire and Novalis 15 

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646 Signs of the Times 15 

550 German Literature 15 

561 Portraits of John Knox 15 

571 Count Cagliostro, etc 15 

578 Frederick the Great, Vol. I 20 

580 Vol. II 20 

591 “ “ “ Vol. Ill 20 

610 “ “ “ Vol. IV 20 

619 “ “ “ Vol. V 20 

622 “ “ “ Vol. VI 20 

626 “ “ “ Vol. VII 20 

•628 “ “ “ Vol. VIII 20 

630 Life of John Sterling 20 

6.3.3 Latter-Day Pamphlets 20 

6.36 Life of Schiller .20 

643 Oliver Cromwell, Vol. 1 25 

646 “ “ Vol. II... 25 

649 “ “ Vol. Ill 25 

652 Characteristics and other Essays. . . 15 

656 Corn Law Rhymes and other Essays. 15 

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661 Dr. Fraucia and other Essays 15 

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481 Through the Looking-Glass 20 

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287 Beyond Pardon 20 

<320 A Broken Wedding-Ring 20 

42^i Repented at Leisure 20 j 

458 Sunshine and Roses 20 I 

465 The Earl’s Atonement 20 | 

474 A Woman’s Temptation 20 

476 Love Works Wonders 20 

558 Fair but False 10 

503 Between Two Sins 10 

G51 At War with Herself 15 

669 Hilda 10 

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G92 Lord Lynn’s Choice 10 | 

694 The Shadow of a Sin 10 I 

695 Wedded and Parted 1 0 

700 In Cupid’s Net 10 

701 Lady Darner’s Secret 20 

718 A Gilded Sin 10 

720 Between Two Loves 20 

727 For Another’s Sin 20 

730 Romance of a Young Girl 20 

733 A Queen Amongst Women 10 

738 A Golden Dawn 10 

739 Like no Other Love ! . . 10 

740 A Bitter Atonement 20 

744 Evelyn’s Folly 20 

752 Set in Diamonds 20 

764 A Fair Mystery 20 

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23 Poems .30 


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8 The Moonstone, Part 1 10 

9 The Moonstone, Part TI 10 

24 The New Magdalen 20 

87 H eart and Science 29 

418 “I Say No” 20 

437 Tales of Two Idle A pprenticcs 15 

68il The Ghost’s Touch 10 

686 My Lady’s Money .10 

722 The Evil Genius 20 

BY HUGH CONWAY 

429 Called Back 15 

462 Dark Days 15 

612 Carriston’s Gift '. 1 J 

617 Paul Vargas; a Mystery 10 

631 A Family Affair 20 

667 Story of a Sculptor 10 

672 Slings and Arrows 10 

715 A Cardinal Sin [ 20 

745 Living or Dead 20 

750 Somebody’s Story 10 

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6 The Last of the Mohicans 20 

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365 The Pathfinder 20 

378 Homeward Bound 20 

441 Home as Found 20 

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467 The Prairie 20 

471 The Pioneer ; 25 

484 The Two Admirals 20 


488 The -Water- Witch 30 

491 The Red Rover 20 

501 The Pilot 20 

506 Wing and Wing 20 

512 Wyandotte .20 

51 7 Heidenmauer 20 

619 The Heswisman 20 

524 The Bravo *. . . 20 

527 Lionel Tjincoln 20 

529 Wept of Wish-ton- Wish 20 

532 Afloat and Ashore 20 

539 Miles Wallingford 20 

543 The Monikins 20 

548 Mercedes of Castile 20 

5.53 The Sea Lions 20 

559 T h 0 C rater 20 

562 Oak Openings 20 

570 Satanstoe 20 

576 The Chain-Bearer 20 

587 Ways of the Hour 20 

601 Precaution 20 

603 Redskins ^ 25 

61 1 Jack Tier 20 

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409 Adrift with a Vengeance 25 

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360 Grandfather Lickshingle 20 

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464 Two Years before the Mast 20 

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345 Dante’s Vision of Hell, Purgatory, 

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260 Mrs. Darling’s War Letters 20 

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315 Winifred Power 20 

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478 Tartarin of Tarascon 20 

(i04 Sidonic 20 

613 .Tack 20 

615 The Little Good-for-Nothing 20 

645 The Nabob 25 

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453 Mystic London 20 

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431 Life of Spenser 10 

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475 A Sheep in Wolfs Clothing 20 

BY REV. C. F. DEEMS, D.D. 

794 Evolution : 20 

BY DANIEL DEFOE 

428 Robinson Crusoe 25 

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20 The Spanish Nun ...10 

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27 Irene; or, Tlie Lonely Manor 2Q 


3 


Lovell’s library. 


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38 A Tale of Two Cities 20 

76 Child’s History of England 20 

91 Pickwick Papers, 2 Parts, each 20 

140 'The Cricket on the Hearth 10 

144 Old Curiosity Shop, 2 Parts, each. ! . 15 

150 Barnaby Rudge, 2 Parts, each 15 

158 David Copperfield, 2 Parts, each 20 

170 Hard Times 20 

192 Great Expectations 20 

201 Martin Chuzzlewit, 2 Parts, each. . ..20 

210 American Notes 20 

219 Dombey and Son, 2 Parts, each 20 

223 Little Dorrit, 2 Parts, each 20 

228 Our Mutual Friend, 2 Parts, each... 20 

231 . Nicholas Nickleby, 2 Parts, each 20 

234 Pictures from Italy 10 

237 The Boy at Mugby 10 

244 Bleak House, 2 Parts, each 20 

Sketches of the Young Couples 10 

261 Master Humphrey’s Clock 10 

267 The Haunted House, etc 10 

270 The Mudfog Papers, etc lO 

273 Sketches by Boz. 20 

274 A Christmas Carol, etc 15 

282 Uncommercial Traveller 20 

288 Somebody’s Luggage, etc 10 

293 The Battle of Life, etc 10 

297 Mystery of Edwin D rood 20 

298 Reprinted Pieces 20 

302 N o Thoroughfare 15 

437 Tales of Two Idle Apprentices 10 

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404 Life of Southey 10 

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76 Molly Bawn 20 

78 Phyllis 20 

86 Monica 10 

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92 Airy Fairy Lilian 20 

126 Loy.s, Lord Beresford 20 

132 Moonshine and Marguferites 10 

162 Faith and Unfaith 20 

168 Beauty’s Daughters 20 

284 Rossmoyne 20 

451 Doris 20 

477 A Week in Killarney 10 

530 In Durance Vile lO 

618 Dick’s Sweetheart ; or, “ O Tender 

Dolores ” 20 

621 A Maiden all Forlorn 10 

624 A Pas.sive Crime 10 

721 Lady Branksmere 20 

736 A Mental Struggle 20 

737 The Hayuted Chamber ,.10 

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763 Count of Monte Cristo, Part II 20 


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203 Disarmed i g 

663 The Flower of Doom ID 

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69 Amos Barton 10 

71 Silas Marner 10 

79 -Romola, 2 Parts, each 16 

149 Janet’s Repentance 10 

151 V Felix Holt 20 

174 , Middlemarch, 2 Parts, each 20 

195 .^Daniel Deronda, 2 Parts, each 20 

202 Theophrastus Such 10 

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208 Brother Jacob, etc 10 

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407 Burke, by J ohn Morley 10 

334 Burns, by Princip.al Shairp 10 

347 Byron, by Professor Nichol 10 

413 Chaucer, by Prof. A. W. Ward 10 

424 Cowper, by Goldwin Smith 10 

377 Defoe, by William Minto 10 

.383 Gibbon, by J. C. Morison 10 

225 Goldsmith, by William Black 10 

369 Hume, by Professor Huxley 10 

401 Johnson, by Leslie St-ephen 10 

.380 Locke, by Thomas Fowler* 10 

.392 Milton, by Mark Pattison 10 

398 Pope, by Leslie Stephen 10 

364 Scott, by R. H. Hutton 10 

•361 Shelley, by J. Symonds 10 

404 Southey, by Professor Dowdeu 10 

431 Spencer, by the Dean of St. Paul’s. . 19 

344 Thackeray, by Anthony Trollope ... 10 

410 Wordsworth, by F. Myers 10 

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243 Gautran ; or, House of White Shad- 
ows 20 

654 Love’s Harvest 20 

BY HARRIET FARLEY 

473 Christmas Stories 20 

BY F, W. FARRAR, D.D. 

19 Seekers after God 20 

50 Burly Dgys of Christianity, 2 Parts, 

eacli 20 

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41 A Marriage in High Life 20 

BY MRS. FORRESTER 

700 Pair Women ,..,,.2Q 


LOVELL’S LIBRARY. 


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MOTTE FOUQUE 

711 Undine 10 

BY THOMAS FOWLER 

8S0 Life of Locke 10 

BY FRANCESCA 

177 The Story of Ida 10 

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319 A Real Queen 20 

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122 Ameline de Bourg 15 

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485 My Rosea 20 

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348 Life of Bunyan 10 

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114 Monsieur Lecoq, 2 Parts, each 20 

116 The Lerouge Case 20 

120 Other People’s Money . 20 

129 In Peril of His Life 20 

138 The Gilded Clique 20 

155 Mystery of Orcival 20 

161 Promise of Marriage 10 

268 File No. 113 ...20 

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52 Progress and Poverty 20 

390 The Land Question 10 

893 Social Problems 20 

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67 The Golden Shaft 20 

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342 Goethe’s Faust 20 

343 Goethe’s Poem s 20 

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362 Plays and Poema 20 

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49 The Secret Despatch 20 

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732 Victory Deane 20 

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709 No. 99 10 

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606 Forbidden Fruit .20 

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157 Romantic Adventures of a Milk- 
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137 Cruel London 20 

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376 Grandfather’s Chair 20 

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666 The Arundel Motto 20 

590 Old My ddleton’s Money 20 

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533 Principles and Fallacies of Social- 
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356 Hygiene of the Brain 25 

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709 Woman against Woman 20 

743 A Woman’s Vengeance 20 

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73 Life of Cromwell 15 

BY THOMAS HOOD 

511 Poems .30 

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S6 Life of Marion 20 

BY ROBERT HOUDIN 

14 The Tricks of the Greeks 20 

BY EDWARD HOWLAND 

742 Social Solutions, Part I 10 

747 “ “ Partll... 10 

758 “ “ Part' ITT 10 

■762 “ “ Part IV;..,....... 1*0 

■J’65 “ “ Party ,,.,...-.,.,10 


LOVELL'S LIBRAllT. 


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534 Papa’s Own Girl 30 


731 Leighton Court 20 

736 Geoffrey Hamlyn 80 


BY JOHN W. HOYT, LL.D. 

535 Studies in Civil Service 16 

BY THOMAS HUGHES 

61 Tom Brown’s School Days 20 

186 Tom Brown at Oxford, 2 Parts, each. 15 

BY PROF. HUXLEY 

869 Life of Hume 10 

BY STANLEY HUNTLEY 

109 The Spoopendyko Papers 20 

BY R. H. HUTTON 

364 Life of Scott 20 


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147 The Sketch Book 20 

198 Tales of a Traveller 20 

199 Life and Voyages of Columbus, 

Part 1 20 

Life and Voyages of Columbus, 

Part II 20 

224 Abbotsford and Newstead Abbey .. .10 
236 K nickerbocker History of New York,2() 

249 The Crayon Papers 20 

263 The Alhambra 15 

272 Conquest of Granada 20 

279 Conquest of Spain 10 

281 Bracebridge Hall 20 

290 Salmagundi 20 

299 Astoria. 20 

301 Spanish Voyages 20 

805 A Tour on the Prairies 10 

808 Life of Mahomet, 2 Parts, each 15 

310 Oliver Goldsmith .20 

311 Captain Bonneville 20 

314 Moorish Chronicles 10 

321 Wolfert’s Roost and Miscellanies 10 


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44 Rasselas 10 

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754 A Modern Midas 20 

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631 Poems 25 

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111 Labor and Capital 20 

BY GRACE KENNEDY 

i06 Dunallan, 2 Parts, each 15 


BY JOHN P. KENNEDY 

67 Horse- Shoe Robinson, 2 Parts, each. .15 

BY CHARLES KINGSLEY 

39 The Hermits 20 

64 Hypatia, 2 Parts, each 15 

BY HENRY KINGSLEY 

726 Austin Eliot 20 

|2b The Uillyars and Burtons 20 


254 

322 

324 

£35 

337 

338 


454 


445 


25 

GOO 

725 

741 


469 


327 


1 

2 

482 


163 

719 


96 


131 


275 


11 

12 

31 

32 
45 

55 

59 

81 

84 

117 

121 

128 

152 

160 

176 

204 

222 

240 

245 

247 

250 


BY W. H. G. KINGSTON 

Peter the Whaler 20 

Mark Sea worth ^ 

Round the World 20 

The Young Foresters ^ 

Salt Water 20 

The Midshipman 20 . 

BY F. KIRBY 

The Golden Dog 40 

. BY A. LA POINTE 

The Rival Doctors 20 

BY MISS MARGARET LEE 

Divorce 20 

A Brighton Night 20 

Dr. Wilmer’s Love 25 - 

Lorimer and Wife 20 

BY JULES LERMINA 

The Chase 20 

BY CHARLES LEVER 

Harry Lorrequer 20 

BY H. W. LONGFELLOW 

Hyperion 20 

Outre-Mer 20 

Poems 20 

BY SAMUEL LOVER 

The Happy Man 10 

Rory O’ More 20 

BY HENRY W. LUCY 

Gideon Fleyce 20 

BY HENRY C. LUKENS 

Jets and Flashes 20 

BY E. LYNN LYNTON 

lone Stewart 20 

BY LORD LYTTON . 

The Coming Race .... — 10 

Leila 10 

Ernest Maltravera 20 

The Haunted House ^10 

Alice ; A Sequel to Ernest Maltra- 

vers 20 

A Strange Story 20 

Last Days of Pompeii 20 

Zanoni 20 

Night and Morning, 2 Parts, each. 15 

Paul Clifford .20 

Lady of Lyons 10 

Money 10 

Richelieu 10 

Rienzi, 2 Parts, each .-...15 

I’elham 20 

Eugene Aram 20 

The Disowned 20 

Kenelm Chillingly 20 

What Will He Do with It ? 2 Parts, 

each 20 

Devereux 20 

The Caxtons, 2 Parts, eacU. 


lovell’s 


253 Lncretia . , 20 

255 Last of the Barons, 2 Parts?, each ... 15 

259 The Parisians, 2 Parts, each 20 

271 My Novel, 3 Parts, each 20 

276 Harold, 2 Parts, each 15 

289 Godolphin 20 

294 Pilgrims of the Rhine ; 15 

317 Pausanias 15 

BY LORD MACAULAY 

333 Lays of Ancient Rome 20 

BY CAPTAIN MARRYAT 

212 The Privateersman 20 

BY HARRIET MARTINEAU 

353 Tales of the French Revolution 15 

354 Loom and Lugger 20 

357 Berkeley the Banker 20 

358 Homes Abroad 15 

363 For Each and For All 15 

372 Hill and Valley 15 

379 The Charmed Sea 15 

388 Life in the Wilds 15 

395 Sowers not Reapers 15 

400 Glen of the Echoes 15 

BY HELEN MATHERS 

165 Eyre’s Acquittal 10 

BY W. S. MAYO 

76 The Berber 20 

BY A. MATHEY 

46 DukeofKandos 20 

60 The Two Duchesses 20 

BY j. H. McCarthy 

115 An Outline of Irish History 10 

BY JUSTIN McCarthy, m.p. 

278 Maid of Athens 20 

BY T. L. MEADE 

328 How It All Came Round 20 

* BY DWEN MEREDITH 

331 L«t5^e 20 

BY JOHN MILTON 

389 Paradise Lost 20 

BY WILLIAM MINTO 

377 Life of Defoe 10 

BY THOMAS MOORE 

416 Lalla Rookh 20 

487 Poems 40 

BY J. C. MORRISON 

383 Life of Gibbon lO 

BY JOHN MORLEY 

407 Life of Burke 10 

BY EDWARD H. MOTT 

139 Pike County Folks 20 

BY ALAN MUIR 

8J2 Golden Girls 20 


LIBRARY. 

BY MAX MULLER 

130 India ; What Can It Teach Us ? 2(1 

BY DAVID CHRISTIE MURRAY 


15)7 By the-Gate of the Sea 15 

758 Cimic Fortune 10 

BY F. MYERS 

410 Life of Wordsworth 10 

BY MISS MULOCK 

33 John Halifax 20 

435 Miss Tommy 15 

751 King Arthur 20 

BY FLORENCE NEELY 

564 Hand-Book for the Kitchen 20 


BY REV. R. H. NEWTON 

83 Right and W rong Uses of the Bi ble . . 20 


BY JOHN NICHOL 

347 Life of Byron 10 

BY JAMES R. NICHOLS, M.D. 

375 Science at Home 20 

BY W. E. NORRIS 

108 No New Thing .20 

592 That Terrible Man 10 

BY CHRISTOPHER NORTH 

439 N octes Ambrosianm 30 

BY LAURENCE OLIPHANT 

196 Altiora Peto 20 

BY MRS. OLIPHANT 

124 The Ladies Lindores. 20 

179 The Little Pilgrim 10 

175 Sir Tom 20 

326 The Wizard’s Son 25 

368 Old Ladj' Mary .10 

602 Oliver’s Bride 10 

717 A Country Gentleman 20 

BY OUIDA 

112 Wanda. 2 Parts, each 15 

127 Under Two Flags, 2 Parts, each.... 20 

387 Princess Napr.axinc 25 

675 A Rainy June 10 

763 Moths 20 

Othmar 20 

BY MAX O’RELL 

336 John Bull and His Island 20 

459 John Bull and His Daughters 20 

BY ALBERT K. OWEN 

G55 Integral Co-operation 30 

BY LOUISA PARR 

42 Robin 20 

BY MARK PATTISON 

392 Life of Milton 10 

BY JAMES PAYN 

187 Thicker than Water 20 

330 The Canon’s Ward 20 

659 Luck of the Dai’rella 20 


LOYELL^S 


LIBRARY. 


BY EDGAR ALLAN POE 


403 Poems 20 

426 Nari-ative of A. Gordon Pym 15 

432 Gold Bug', and Otiier Tales 15 


438 The Asfii^ation and Other Tales . . 15 
447 The Murders in the Ruc Morgue ... 15 

BY WILLIAM POLE, F.R.S. 

406 The Theory of the Modern Scien* 


tific Game of Whist 15 

BY ALEXANDER POPE 

391 Homer’s Odyssey 20 

396 Homer’s Iliad 30 

457 Poems 30 


677 Aratra Pentelici 16’ 

650 Time and Tide 15 

665 Mornings in Florenee 15 

668 St. Mark’s Re.st 16 

670 Deucalion ...15 

673 Art of England ........15 

676 Eagle’s Nest 15 

679 “ Our Fathers Have Told XJs” 15 

682 Proserpina 15 

685 Val d'Amo 15 

688 Love’s Meinie 15 

707 Fors Clavigera. Part 1 30 

708 “ “ Part II 30 

713 “ “ I’art HI 30 

714 “ “ ^ Part IV 30 


189 

882 


BY JANE PORTER 

Scottish Chiefs, Part I 

Scottish Chiefs, Part II 

Thaddeus of Warsaw 


.20 

. 2 # 

.25 


159 


BY ADELAIDE A. PROCTER 

339 Poems 20 

BY CHARLES EEADE 

28 Singleheart and Doubleface 10 

415 A Perilous Secret 20 

769 Foul Play 20 

Put Yourself in his Place 20 


123 

399 


1.36 


27 


BY MRS. ROWSON 

Charlotte Temple 10 


BY W. CLARK RUSSELL 


A Sea Queen 20 

John Holdsworth 20 


BY GEORGE SAND 

The Tower of Percemont 

BY MRS. W. A. SAVILLE 

Social Etiquette 


20 - 


15 


BY REBECCA FERGUS REDD 


16 

408 

666 

699 

101 

134 


411 


329 


497 

506 

610 

516 

521 

637 

642 

665 

672 

677 

689 

608 

698 

628 

f>27 

637 

639 

642 

644 


Freckles 20 

The Brierfield Tragedy 20 

BY “ RITA ” 

Dame Durden 20 

Like Dian’s Kiss 20 


710 

341 


BY SIR H. ROBERTS 


Harry Holbrooke 20 

BY A. M. r. ROBINSON 

Aiden 15 

BY REGINA MARIA ROCHE 

Children of the Abbey 50 

BY DANTE ROSSETTI 

Poems 20 


145 

359 

489 

490 

492 

493 
495 
499 
502 


py JOHN RUSKIN 

Sesame and Lilies 

Crown of Wild Clives 

Ethics of the Dust 

Queen of the Air 

Seven Lamps of Architecture. 

Lectures on Architecture and Paint- 


10 

1C 


504 

509 

515 

536 


19 I 644 


10 

20 


551 

557 

169 


ing 

Stones of Venice, 3 Vols., each. 

Modern Painters, Vol. I 

“ “ Vol. 11 

“ “ Vol. Ill 

*• “ Vol. IV 

“ “ Vol. V 

King of the Golden River 

Unto this Last 

Munera Pulveris 


.15 

.25 

.20 

.20 

.20 

.25 

.25 

.10 

.10 

.15 


575 

681 

586 

595 

605 

607 

609 

620 

625 

629 


“ A Joy Forever ” 15 , (>32 

The Pleasures of England 10 ' (^5 

The Two Paths 20 | (^ 

Lectures on Art 15 041 


BY J. X. B. SAINTINE 

Picciola ,10 

BY J. C. F. VON SCHILLER 

Schiller’s Poems 20’ 

BY MICHAEL SCOTT 

Tom Cringle’s Log 20 

BY SIR V/ ALTER SCOTT 

Ivanhoe, 2 Parts, each 15 

Lady of the Lake, with Notes 20 

Bride of Lammermoor 20 

Black Dwarf 10' 

Castle Dangerous 15 

Legend of Montrose 15 

The Surgeon’s Daughter 10 

Heart of Mid-Lothian 30' 

Waver ley 20‘ 

Fortunes of Nigel 20'' 

Peveril of the Peak 30 

The Pirate 20 

Poetical Works 49’ 

Redgauntlet 25 

Woodstock 20 

Count Robert of Paris 20 

The Abbot 20 > 

Quentin Durward 20 

The Talisman 20 

St. Ronan's Well 20' 

Anne of Geierstcin 20’ 

Aunt Margaret’s Mirror 10 

Chronicles of the Canongate 15 

The Monastery 20 

GuyMannering 20- 

Kenilv/orLh 25 > 

The. Antiquary 20' 

Rob" Roy 20 

The Betrothed 20 i 

Fair Maid of Perth 20 

Old Mortality 2Q 


LOVELL’S LIBRARY. 




ISSXJES. 


664 At Bay, by Mrfl. Ale^candcr 10 

605 Mornings in Florence, by Rtiskin*,15 
660 Barbara’s Rival, by Ernest Young. 20 


667 Story of a Sculptor, by Conway.. .10 
66S St. Mark's Rest, by John Ru8kin..l5 

669 Hilda, by Bertha M. Clay 10 

670 Deucalion, by Ruskin 10 

671 The Scout, by Simms £5 

672 Slings and Arrows, by Conway..., 10 

678 Art of England, by Ruskin 15 

674 The Wigwam and Cabin, by Simms.lO 

675 A Rainy June, by Ouida 10 

676 Eagle’s Nest, by Rusldn 15 

677 Vasconselos, by Simms 30 

678 White Heather, by Black, . 20 

679 Our Fathers have Told Us, Ruskin. 15 

680 Confession, by Simms 30 

681 A Girton Girl, by Itlrs. Edwards, . .20 

682 Proserpina, by Ruskin 15 

6S3 The Ghost’s Touch, by Collins 10 

684 Woodcraft, by Simms 30 

685 Vai d’Arno, by Ruskin 15 

680 My Lady’s Money, by Collins ... . .10 

687 Richard Hurdis, by Simms 30 

688 Love’s Meinie, by Ruskin 15 

689 Her Martyrdom, by B. M. Clay. . .20 

690 Guy Rivers, by Simms 30 

691 A Woman’s Honor, by Yourig 20 

692 Lord Lynne’s Choice, B. M. Clay.. 10 

693 Border Beagles, by W. G. Simms.. 30 

694 The Shadow of a Sin, B. M. Clay.. 10 


695 Wedded and Parted, by B. M. Ciay.lO 
690 The Master of the Mine, Buchanan. 10 

697 The Forayers, by Simms 30 

698 The Mistletoe Bough, M.E.Braddon. 20 

699 Self or Bearer, Walter Besant. .. .10 

700 In Cupid’s Net, by B. M. Clay 10 

701 Lady Darner’s Secret, B. M. Clay., 20 

702 Charlemont, by W. G. Simms ... .30 

703 Butaw, by W. G. Simms SO 

704 Evolution, Rev. C. F. Deems, D.D.20 

705 Beauchampe, by W. G. Simms 30 

706 No. 99, by Arthur Griffiths 10 

707 Fors Clavigera, by Ruskin. P’t I. 30 

708 Fors Clavigera, by Ruskin. P’tII..30 

709 Woman against Woman, by Holmes . 20 

710 Picciola, by J. X. B. Saintine 10 

711 Undine, by Baron de la Motto 

Fouque 10 

712 Woman, by August Bebel 30 

713 Fors Clavigera, by Ruskin. P’t III. 30 

714 Fors Clavigera, by Ruskin. P’t IV.30 

715 A Cardinal Sin, by Hugh Con way. 20 

716 A Crimson Stain, Annie Bradshaw. 20 

717 AConntryGentleman,Mrs.Oliphant.20 

718 A Gilded Sin, by B. M. Clay 10 

719 Rory O’More, by Samuel Lover. . . .20 

720 Between Two Loves, B. M. Clay... 20 

721 Lady Branksmere, by The Duchess. 20 

722 The Evil Genius, by Wilkie Gollin8.20 

723 Running the Gauntlet, by Yates... 20 

724 Broken to Harness, Edmund Yates. 20 

725 Dr. Wilmer’s Love, Margai-et Lee.. 25 
720 Austin Eliot, by Henry Kingsley,. 20 


727 For Another’s Sin, by B. M. Clay. .20 

728 The Hdlyars and Burtons, Kmgsiey 20 

729 In Prison and Out, by Strclton 20 

730 Romance of a Young Girl, by Clay.20 

731 Leighton Court, by Kingsley 20 

732 Victory Deane, by Cecil Griffith. .20 

733 A Queen amongst Women, by Ciay.lO 

734 Vineta, by E. Werner. 20 

735 A Mental Struggle, The Duchess. ,20 

736 Geoffrey Hamlyn, l3y H. Kingsley. 30 

737 The Haunted Chamber, ‘^Duchess’MO 

738 A Gohlen Dawn, by B. M. Clay 10 

739 Like no Other Love, by B. M, Ciay.lO 

740 A Bitter Atonement, by B. M. Clay.20 

741 Lcrimer and Wife, by Margaret Lee.20 

742 Social Solutions No. 1, by Howland. 10 

743 A Woman’s Vengeance, by Holmes. 20 

744 Evelyn’s Folly, by B. M. Clay 20 

745 Living or Dead, by Hugh Conway.. 20 
716 Beaton’s Bargain, Mrs, Alexander,. 20 

747 Social Solutions, No. 2, by Howland. 10 

748 Our Roman Palace, by Benjamin.. 20 

749 Mayor of Casterbridge, by Hardy. .20 

750 Somebody's Story, by Hugh Conway.lO 

751 King Arthur, by Miss Mulock 20 

752 Set in Diamonds, by B, M. Clay.. . .20 

753 Social Solutions, No. 3, by Howland. 10 

754 A Modern Midas, by Maurice Jokai.2U 

755 A Fallen Idol, by F. Anstey 20 

756 Conspiracy, by Adam Badeau... .25 

757 Doris’ Fortune, by F. Warden. ... 10 

758 Cynic Fortune, by D. C. Murray. ..10 

759 Foul Play, by Chas. Reade 20 

760 Fair Women, by Mrs, FoiTesier . . . .20 

761 Count of Monte Cristo, Part I., by 

Alexandre Dumas 20 

761 Count of Monte Cristo, Part II., by 

Alexandre Dumas 20 

762 Social Solutions, No. 4, by Howland. 10 

763 Moths by Ouida . .20 

764 A Fair Mystery, by Bertha M. Clay.20 

765 Social Solutions, No. 5, by Howlaud.lO 

766 Vixen, by Miss Braddon, 20 

767 Kidnapped, by R. L. Stevenson.. . .20 

768 The Strange Case of Dr, Jekyll and 

Mr. Hyde, by R, L. Stevenson 10 

769 Prince Otto, by R. L. Stevenson. . .10 

770 The Dynamiter, by-R. L. Stevenson, 20 

771 The Old Mam’selle’s Secret, by E, 

Marlitt 20 

772 Jlysteries of Paris, Part I., by Sue. 20 

772 Mysteries of Paris, Part II., by Sue.20 

773 Put Yourself in His Place, by Reade. 20 

774 Social Solutions, No. 6, by Howland.lO 

775 The Three Guardsmen, by Dumas. 20 

776 The Wandering Jew, Part I., by Sue.20 

776 TheWandering Jew. Part II.,b3'Sue.20 

777 A Second Life, by Mrs. Alexander.20 

778 Social Solutions, No. 7, by Howland.lO 


779 My Friend Jim, by W. E. Norris . . 10 
7 -^0 Bad to Beat, by Hawley Smart ... 10 
781 Betty’s Visions, by Broughton 15 


782 Social Solutions, No. 8, by Howland.lO 

783 The Octoroon, by Miss Braddoin. ..10 


Any of the above can be obtained from all booksellers and newsdealers, or will bo 
sent free by mail, on receipt of price, by the publishers. 

JOim W. LOYELL COMPANY, 

Nos. 14 AND IG Yesfa' Street, New York. 



The treatment of manj^ thousands of 
cases of those chronic weaknesses and 
distressing ailments peculiar to females, 
at the Invalids’ Hotel and Surgical In- 
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vast experience in nicely adapting and 
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Targe bottles (1(X) doses) $1.00, or 
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ij^“ Send ten cents in stamps for Dr. 
Pierce’s large, illustrated Treatise (100 
pages) on Diseiises of Women. Address, 
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